Life Has Killed the Dream
by Marius blowthebaricade
Summary: He did not want to be the way that he was. He did not like being like this. He wanted to be like Enjolras. He wanted to be good, and brave, and strong like Enjolras. He wanted to make Enjolras proud. But it was too late for that, now. Long ago, perhaps, but not now. Now, Grantaire was a disgraceful man. But long ago, things had been different.
1. The Cup of Evil

Chapter I

~The Cup of Evil~

Grantaire sat in his usual corner of the Café Musain, sitting in his usual position, at his usual table, in his usual chair, as usual, a bottle in his hand and a young woman, though she was not the same woman as yesterday, in his lap. He was drinking, and smiling, and drinking, and laughing, and drinking, and whispering things into the young lady's ear that made her blush, and giggle, and gaze upon him with longing and loving eyes. Then he grinned back at her, smiling at her with that same charming air that had stolen the hearts of so many women. Their hearts had been stolen, intoxicated, warmed, and then broken. Then the poor girls were left alone, to suffer in despair, confusion, and brokenness, to endure the cruelty of the world, and to pay whatever consequences for their actions.

Grantaire was charming. Faltering. Deceiving. He played a cruel game of which he called "Love." Many young women were caught by his trap. As he smiled at them, and looked longingly into their eyes, and pressed his lips to their ear and whispered "I love you," as he held them close against him, held their heads to his chest, as they felt his body pressed against their own, as they listen to his heartbeat, and he said to them, "I will always love you," as he whispered false words of love, and made false declarations, and made false promises, countless young women had fallen for him. She fell for Grantaire. For his charm, for his words, for his promises, and for those treacherous words whispered as she lied in bed with him, hugging him closely, as he gently stroked her hair, and said, "I love you."

She fell for Grantaire. She bought into his lies and false promises, and she believed that she had, at last, found love. She believed that she and this man would be together forever. She believed that he really loved her, and she really loved him. In most cases, she loved him, adored him, worshiped him, and she would have done anything for him, she would have given him anything, she would have trusted him with anything. She made the mistake of trusting him with her heart. She loved him, she submitted to him, she slept with him, and hardly a week, a day, an hour later, he left her.

Then she was left alone, broken, confused, afraid, lost, and hopeless. Sometimes she would go running back to Grantaire, trembling, weeping, begging for him to return and come back to her. "But you loved me! You told me that you loved me!" she would cry out through her tears, but he would brush her away and merely reply, "Darling, love is a terrible thing. It is treacherous, and cruel, and brutal, and cold, and deceiving. One way or another, it always betrays us."

Then, the poor girl was on her own, abandoned, forgotten, ruined, broken, and poisoned by Grantaire. She was, more often then not, a good person at heart. She was young, virtuous, good, and pure. But blinded by the sweet intoxication of love, she was deceived. She was ensnared by the trap of evil.

The nature of man is not good. It is sinful, rebellious, wretched, wicked, cruel, lustful, selfish, and driven by savage desire. It is impure, unclean, and it hunts like a wild beast with ravenous hunger for the delightful taste of pleasure. For the treacherous cup of evil. Man drinks from the cup of evil, and he is intoxicated by the rebellious, prideful, and selfish sensation of sin. At once, he goes out seeking for more.

The soul of a man is different. The soul is the part of a human being that is alive. It governs the entire being and makes a man who he is. It has the power to think, to judge, to make decisions, and to act. It is the mind, but beyond that it is conscience and it is the heart. The soul is the man, himself. It is the part of a man that is capable of being good, but it also capable of being despicable.

God offers man the cup of goodness, the cup of righteousness, the cup of purity, and the cup of salvation. If a man chooses to accept this cup, if he takes it and drinks of it, then he will obtain all of these things. He will be good, righteous, pure, and in the end, he will obtain salvation. Through Christ, a man is capable of being something more than his nature.

But Satan offers the cup of evil. While the cup of the Lord is pure, clean, righteous, and joyful, the cup that the Devil offers is sinful, delightful, lustful, selfish, and he who drinks of it receives great pleasure. The taste of sin is sweet. A man takes it, and he feels that he is free, that he is a rebel, that he submits to no one, that he has no king, that he, himself, is the ruler, that he is the master of himself, that he is greater than all others, that he is greater than God. The Devil's drink is treacherous and it is deceiving. For the man who drinks it does not realize that he is, indeed, a slave. He is a slave to his sin, and he is a slave to Satan, the one who has deceived him.

Both of these cups, one good purity and the other sinful sweetness, are offered to a man. Human nature loves the cup of evil, as it is wielded to play to the desires of man's corrupted hearts. To the eye it is inviting, to the body it is pleasing, and to the mind it is satisfying. But by the conscience, it can he turned away. It takes a strong person to reject the cup of evil, the clever trap of the deceitful one.

Yet, still, there are those who are deceived into drinking from this cup and they take it unknowingly. Blinded by love, by joy, by lust, and by the charm of deceit, the young woman fell for Grantaire. As she loved him, as he held her, as he told her that he loved her, as she submitted to him, as she followed him to his bed, she drank from the cup of evil, and she mistook it to be the cup of love and of joy. Only once Grantaire had broken her heart, did she realize what she had done. But by this time, it was too late. Grantaire had taken from her, her pride, her respect, her innocence, and her purity. He had scarred her with a mark of evil, and he had left her alone to suffer it by herself. At this point, he was gone and she was on her own.

Grantaire was a cynical man of doubt, of skepticism, of caution, and of sin. He was a drinker, a drunkard, a rover, a gambler, a doubter, a deceiver, a doubter, a cynic, a skeptic, and he took great care not to believe in anything. Anything that a man believes in, according to Grantaire's theory, would only betray him, abandon him, and leave him with a lost mind and a broken heart. He was careful as to not be deceived and fall into this trap. The trap of belief, of trust, or of love. He wielded the trap himself, as so he would not fall into it. He waved a hand a religion, he laughed at passion, he ridiculed dedication, and he shook his head at belief. Whenever he saw someone who had put his faith in something more than what was visible before him, Grantaire would shake his head and think, _"Poor fellow. He believes so strongly. He is so sure. He will be disappointed." _

Grantaire was not handsome. His clothes were dirty, wrinkled, and untidy. His hair was thick, black, long, curly, messy, wild, untamed, not groomed, and not bothered with. His skin was darkened by the sun, scarred in some places, and simply had the rough look of a rouge. His eyes were dark in color, bright in liveliness, but vacant in any type of will or passion. His, also, eyes were, more commonly than not, red and watery for the intake of so much alcohol. His face had somewhat of an unhealthy look, and there were often dark shadows hanging under his eyes, either from illness, from lack of sleep, or from the consumption of an extremely unhealthy amount of liquor. His body was ruined, weakened, and destroyed by the alcohol that possessed him. He was not handsome. He was ugly. But beyond that he cared nothing for himself, that he did not attempt to take care of his own body, and the damage done to him by alcohol, beyond all of this, he had a captivating smile and a certain charm that was easily able to lure in women. He was a good charmer, a good liar, and a good trickster. He was vain, hopeless, selfish, and loveless.

But even still, when he was so skeptical of belief, so critical of passion, so disdainful to love—real love, that is, as he told these young women that he loved him, but he did not love them, at all—there was one thing that Grantaire believed in, one this that Grantaire had a passion for, one thing that he loved. Enjolras.

Enjolras was a handsome young man, who was the utter most opposite of Grantaire. He was strong, brave, bold, selfless, faithful, passionate, dedicated, and he believed in the unseen, the unknown, and the impossible. He believed in God and he trusted Him. He believed in love, although he did not love any woman, and he did not have a family, he loved his friends, although he hardly showed them this or let them know it, and above all, he loved France, he loved Liberty, and he loved Freedom. Still, beyond all of this, the most passionately, the most vigorously, and the most selflessly, he believed in the Revolution. He was the icon for a freedom, the symbol for the people to follow, and the leader of the rebellion. He was the chief of a small group of students called the Friends of the ABC, and he led them in the fight for freedom.

He was inspiring, moving, and awe-striking. He spoke of freedom, and his voice was like the song of the angels, beautiful, powerful, moving, and its splendor passed into all those who listened to him, and they trembled in awe, as if they had been touched by a being of Heaven. In times of quiet, he was a soldier, a commander, a king. But when he spread his wings and took flight, he would go soaring like an angel through the heavens. All who saw him, heard him, or felt his presence would be left in a state of admiration, of amazement, and of awe. They would feel that they had just witnessed a vision from God.

Enjolras was like that of the great cherubim. He had the power to turn to pure water even the hardest heart of stone with only his words. He was unearthly and he was majestic. Beyond the magnificence of his soul, his outward beauty was angelic. His body was like that of the ancient statues of the gods, flawless and beautiful. His skin was fair, smooth, and had a look youthful and pure, like a being already glorified by the Curator. His hair, long, fair, curly locks of gold, fell down his neck, blew in the wind, and glowed in light like the rays of the sun. He had a stern, serious, grave, and majestic face, like that of a marble statue of a king. His lips were pure and they had never kissed or had been kissed by a mortal being on this earth. His cheeks were smooth, fair, and soft, and they were highlighted in gentle red as if brushed lightly by a rose. But beyond all of this dawn, the true wonder of this being could be found in his eyes. His eyes were blue, clear blue like the sky, but a shade darker, like the sky just before the sun sets. Like the sky, his eyes held an endless depth, hidden mystery, and the wonders of life. When looking into his eyes, one beheld a boundless and untamable life, a harsh severity, a restless will, and a passion that blazed like fire.

He was the utter opposite of Grantaire, and he was everything that Grantaire did not believe in. Yet, Grantaire believed in Enjolras. He could not help it. He admired, respected, honored, and loved Enjolras. He loved this man like his king. Grantaire, who did not believe in anything, found belief in the man Enjolras. And so, he was a part of the Friends of the ABC. He did not believe in the Revolution, but he believed in its leader. Grantaire saw this young man, Enjolras, so brave, so certain, so selfless, so pure, so righteous, so good, and he yearned to be like the man that Enjolras was. But it was too late for that. Enjolras drank from the cup of purity, and Grantaire drank from the cup of wretchedness.

Today, was like every other day. Grantaire was sitting in the MusainCafé with his friends, by they had gathered at a different table and were listening to Enjolras speak about the Revolution. In the mean time, Grantaire sat in the corner with a young woman, whom he hardly knew, in his lap and a bottle in his hand. "I love you," he told her.

She smiled, and blushed, and dropped her eyes away from him. "You love me?" she repeated in a soft whisper.

"Of course, I do," Grantaire whispered into her ear. "I will always love you."

She looked up to meet his eyes, and he smiled at her. Her heart fluttered with joy and swelled with love. "You have to stay with me," she whispered. "Promise me that we will be together forever."

Grantaire smiled. "I promise." Then, before she had time to reply, Grantaire took her cheek in his hand, brought her face toward his own, their lips met, and he kissed her. She let out a soft gasp at first, as this was the first time that she had ever been kissed by a man, but only a few moments later, she kissed him in return. Then, they were both kissing each other here in this café, the girl not thinking about those who might have been watching and Grantaire not caring. Their arms were entwined around each other, their bodies pressed together, and their lips continuously sliding over one another's. To the girl this was a passionate testimony of true love. To Grantaire it was simply selfish pleasure. There was no telling how long this might have lasted had they not been interrupted.

"Grantaire!"

The girl jumped, Grantaire sighed, and they both, breaking apart, turned to look upon the man who had addressed them. It was Enjolras.

He was standing before them, looking upon them with dark, scornful, and hateful eyes. "Grantaire, leave is woman alone!" Enjolras snapped.

"Leave us alone, Enjolras," Grantaire said in reply, as the girl tightened her grip on him, recoiled, tried to hide behind him, and looked fearfully upon Enjolras, as if she feared that he had come to take Grantaire away from her.

Enjolras scoffed at Grantaire and turned look at the woman. "What is your name?" he asked her. His voice was cold and harsh like the chill of winter.

She stared at him with wide eyes and a white face for a long moment, before she reluctantly and fearfully answered, "Pénélope…"

"Well then, Pénélope," Enjolras went on brusquely, "you best save yourself from grief and heartbreak and get out of here, at once. Do not listen to this man. The things that he says to you are lies. He does not love you. He is using you. If you fall for him then he will only break your heart."

"No, he won't!" Pénélope immediate cried out in protest. "Grantaire loves me!" But then, a moment later, she turned to look at Grantaire, as if asking him to confirm what she had just said. But to her utter horror he did not confirm what she said. In fact, he did not even deny what Enjolras had said. He did not even look at her. He was looking steadily upon Enjolras with sad and disappointed eyes, not trying to protest against the man's words. It almost seemed that he was admitting these words to be true…

"He will leave you," Enjolras went on, unaffected my any of this, by Grantaire's glum expression, or the girl's utter shock, horror, and sorrow. "He leaves them all. Only yesterday he was sitting in that exact chair with another woman saying the exact words to her yesterday that he has, no doubt, said to you today. Do yourself a favor, girl, go home. Leave now before he ruins you."

During Enjolras's speech, Pénélope stared at Grantaire, his face white and afraid, her eyes wide, desperate, pleading, and confused. But Grantaire did not acknowledge her, at all, until Enjolras had finished speaking, and she tugged at Grantaire's sleeve and cried, "Grantaire! It is not true, is it? Tell me that it is not true, and I will believe you."

When she said this, Enjolras scoffed, turned away, and let out a grunt of disbelief, of scorn, and of frustration. Women in love were impossible. She was blinded by her passion. It was almost frightening how greatly love could poison her, what it could do to her mind, how it could dull her judgment so that she believed everything that the man told her… even if the lie was as obvious as trickster in front of her.

Grantaire finally turned his head to look at her. His face was almost void of emotion, except, perhaps, disappointment. He just stared at her, saying nothing. A dark look, as if a shadow blocked the sun, then came upon the girl's face, as she began to understand the true. "Is it true?" she questioned again. This time, her voice was cold, dark, angry, as well. But still confused and heartbroken.

Grantaire stared at her for another long moment, before he sighed and said to her flatly, "I really do think that you are pretty." This was not meant to be a complement. It was not meant to, in any way, comfort her, reassure her, or make her love him. It was a way of saying, _"I do think that you are pretty, but everything else was a lie. I do not love you. I was using you. Yes, what Enjolras has said is true."_ The girl understood.

She stared at Grantaire for only a moment longer, her face falling even darker, darkening with sadness and with brokenness, but also with anger and with that dreadful fury that comes to a person when she has discovered that she has been deceived. Then, suddenly disgusted as if she had thought Grantaire a king and had suddenly discovered him to be scum lower than the earth, she pushed Grantaire away from her, hastily got off of his lap, slapped him across the face, turned away still glaring at him, turned her back on him, and stormed out of the café.

Grantaire and Enjolras both watched her leave, saying nothing. Grantaire's face was slightly disappointed, but other than this, he did not seem to care much, at all. Perhaps, he would miss out on one night of pleasure, but there were plenty of other women. He did not love her anyway.

"This is disgusting," Enjolras finally said, breaking the silence.

Grantaire turned his head to look up at the man, he still seated in his chair, a bottle still in his hand, and Enjolras standing tall, proud, and strongly on the other side of the table that separated them. The piece of wood that separated sin from righteousness. "What is disgusting?" he asked his leader.

Enjolras abruptly turned his head to look scornfully down upon the drunkard. "_You_ are disgusting, Grantaire!" he cried out in outrage. "Look at you! Look at the woman, whom you have hurt! It is despicable! You take in women and then break their hearts! You destroy their lives! You ruin them!"

A small, sad smile spread across Grantaire's lips as he looked up at this man. This man who he admired so much, this man who he believed in, this man who he would have followed into death, itself, this man who only hated him, rebuked him, and scorned him in return. "I love them," he said, innocently and guiltily at the same time.

Enjolras scoffed and rolled his eyes in anger. "You _use _them," he corrected Grantaire. "You are selfish and cowardly. You tell these women that you love them, you use them, your ruin them, and then you leave them. That, Grantaire! _That _is disgusting!"

The smiled faded off of Grantaire face, and he reached for his bottle. He had barely managed to raise it to his lips, however, when Enjolras cried out, "Put the bottle down, drunkard! Is that your only resort to anything?! To everything?! To drink you life away?! You are a fool," he said darkly, and he shook his head. "You are a coward."

These words hit Grantaire like a knife. He felt a pang of the sadness in his heart, and he could feel it sinking in his chest. He loved Enjolras. Not romantically, but like a father, a leader, a king, a god. But Enjolras hated him so much. Enjolras despised him, scorned hi, rejected him, and hated him. It hurt Grantaire. Enjolras hurt Grantaire worse than anyone else could have, worse than anyone else would have been capable of hurting him. Because the one thing that Grantaire believed in called him a fool and a coward.

He slowly lowered the bottle away from his lips, set it down on the table before him, and then stared at it, sadly and shamefully. He did not want to be the way that he was. He did not like being like this. He wanted to be like Enjolras. He wanted to be good, and brave, and strong like Enjolras. He wanted to make Enjolras proud. But it was too late for that, now. Long ago, perhaps, but not now. Now, Grantaire was a disgraceful man. But long ago, things had been different.

Still starring at the bottle, unable to look up at Enjolras, he struggled to speak, but his voice came forth as a whisper so soft that Enjolras could barely hear him. "You don't understand."

Enjolras, showing no pity, no sympathy, no change in mind, replied harshly. "No, I do not understand. I do not understand men like you, Grantaire. You do not believe in anything!"

Then, Grantaire whispered, "I believe in you."

Enjolras rolled his eyes and walked away.

For a brief moment, Grantaire allowed his eyes a glace in that direction so that he could watch Enjolras walk away. Enjolras was right. He was a disgrace. He was disgusting. He was a fool, and he was a coward. Enjolras hated Grantaire, and Grantaire hated himself. Grantaire sighed and looked away. He reached for his bottle, and this time, he raised it to his lips and took a long drink.

Enjolras did not understand. No body could understand. Grantaire never wanted to be what he had become. But he, like so many others, had been deceived. He drank from the cup of evil, thinking that it could help him, that it could make things better, that it could save him. But it had ruined him. Now, he was trapped, and there was no way out. Now, he was trapped to live in sin forever. Now, Grantaire was a slave to his sin and to his bottle.

But he had not always been this way. There was a time long ago, long, long ago, years ago, that things had been different. This was so long ago that Grantaire had nearly forgotten it. No, he had not forgotten. He would never be able to forget. He had tried to forget, but he would never be able to. He had tried so hard. He had tried to drown the memories in his alcohol. Sometimes his liquor numbed his senses, sometimes it fogged up his mind, sometimes he was almost able to forget. But the scars were always there on his heart, to haunt him forever, never to go away. He would never be able to forget. Even as hard as he tried, even as he drowned his soul in alcohol and in sinfulness, he knew that he would never really be able to forget. The past would haunt him forever. Grantaire would never be able to go back. He would never be able to change.


	2. Christine

Chapter II

~Christine~

The year was 1803. Just outside of Paris there was a small commune called Saint-Mandé. Saint-Mandé was beautiful. The city was small, but it had some fine works of architecture, a beautiful little church, trees of blossoms and water, and a shining blue river.

In this town there lived a man, a good man, a Christian man, a hardworking man, and an honest man. He was not rich, he worked for a living, he lived in a small house, and he made enough francs to keep himself fed. He fell in love you a beautiful woman, and hardly a year later she became his wife. They were happy together and they loved each other dearly. The man worked even harder as to support himself and his wife. She helped him in any way that she could and offered several times to get a job, but he insisted that she not work, as a woman was not supposed to have to work. A man provided for his family.

Then, the child came. A little girl was born to these two good people. She came to them like a gift from Heaven, quiet, innocent, pure, and perfect. The child was beautiful. Her parents loved her in a divine, angelic love that only comes to parents in love with their children. They called her Christine. The man began to work tirelessly, from before the sun rose and until after it set, in order to support his wife and his child. He was weighed down with work, but he was happy. He was happy, because he had his family, his wife, and his daughter. This little family was a glorious sight on which even the angel, no doubt, marveled upon with joy and with adoration. Then disaster struck.

Not even a full year after the child was born, the mother fell ill with some disease sudden and horrible. It sprang upon her like a snake springing forth from a rose patch and sinking its fangs into his oblivious victim. No one expected it. No saw it coming. No one knew from where it had come or why it had attacked. Of all people, why her? The man hurried to bring his wife to the hospital, but it was too late. A terrible fever was upon the woman, she coughed, she shivered, she sweated, she could not breathe, she was delirious, she was weak, and she was in pain. As she lied upon her bed, only minutes away from falling into the hand of Death, her husband stayed with her. He kneeled by her side the entire time, holding her hand in both of his, praying, choking back tears, begging her to stay, telling her that he needed her, telling her that he loved her.

As a dark shadow fell upon the woman's face, a strange light seemed to come upon it, as well. A light from Heaven. A light that appears on the face of an angel as her soul takes wings and departs into the greater land. She looked lovingly upon the face of her husband, and a small smile came upon her face. Then she whispered in a soft, sweet voice, like that of angel, "I love you, Tomothée. Take care of Christine. Take care of my daughter." Then she closed her eyes and died.

The man grieved painfully and bitterly over the death of his beloved wife, but that night when he remained in the hospital weeping over her lifeless body, he swore to her that he would honor her final request, and he would do all in his power to be a good father to the girl, that he would care for her, and that he would love her.

He did, indeed, work very hard to support himself and his young daughter. He worked all throughout the day, and late at night when he had finished his work, he spent every moment with his child. He taught her how to read and to write, he taught her the Bible, he taught her about Jesus, and he taught her about her mother. He taught her to be a good person. He taught her to be good, and kind, and caring, and virtuous, and loving. They were not rich, but they got along with what they had. They were happy. The poor widower had lost his first angel, but had been given an angel even more precious. For even as much as a man loves his wife, that love cannot compare to the love he has for his children.

The man loved his daughter with all of his mind, his heart, and his soul. He loved her in that mysterious, divine, holy love that only a parent can feel for his child. This is love that comes from God. This love fills the soul, warms the heart, and compels the mind to do anything and everything for the child. This love is the closest love that mortal man can know to the love that Christ has for his children. For this love, the perfect Lord died on a cross, giving himself up, and sacrificing everything to save the souls of his sinful children. Likewise, the girl loved her father. She loved him more than anything else on this earth. She loved him, she respected him, she admired him, she was proud of him, and in her mind, there was not greater father or greater man to ever live. Save for, perhaps, Christ, himself.

Growing up under her father's care, protection, and guidance, Christine grew into a fine young girl, and then a fine young woman. She was kind, gently, virtuous, righteous, pure, holy, and good. She believed in God and she lived Him, she believed in everything that he father taught her, and she believed in her father like a king.

In the year 1819, she was sixteen years of age. She was beautiful, blooming in the sweet April of a young girl's life. She looked astonishingly like her mother, who was beautiful, and she possessed an even greater beauty that seemed to come not from the earth but from Heaven. It was as if the angel of her mother had come to her and blessed her with glorious splendor, outside and inside. Like her mother, Christine had a soft, sweet, innocent, yet beautiful face; she had smooth, fair skin; pure lips, slightly red; soft cheeks highlighted a gentle pink color; long bronze hair that fell over her shoulders and down her back in flowing and wavy locks; long, fair lashes; and eyes of pure blue, like a cloudless sky, that sparkled like sunlight reflecting off clear water. She was not pretty. She was glorious, angelic, divine. Yet, she was even more beautiful, because she did not know it.

She had the body of a goddess but the modesty of a nun. She was humble, modest, selfless, and innocent. She remained virtuous, and she did not chase after the sinful desires of man. She thought not of men, she did not long for a lover, and never once did she raise her eyes to lust upon even an exceedingly handsome fellow. She saw a man marveling at her, and she dropped her eyes and became embarrassed, because she thought that he thought her homely or poorly dressed—her father not having much money, she had only one dress, a pretty white dress, but nothing like the beautiful gowns of a rich women. Still, she did not want one of these gowns. She valued modesty and virtue, and she repelled vanity. She loved her father and she loved God. Although she could not remember her, she also loved her mother, and knowing that she was now in Heaven with Jesus, Christine spoke to her mother sometimes at night. That was enough.

She drank not from the cup of evil, but from the cup of righteousness.

It came one Sunday morning that her father, although it was the Lord's Day and a day of rest, was working in order to acquire more money. Christine offered to help him at his work, but he persuaded her to, instead, attend the morning service at the church. She usually sat with her father in the back of the church each Sunday, but today she sat alone, and there was empty space in the pew beside her. Just before the service began, she heard a soft voice enquire, "Mademoiselle, would you mind if I sat here beside you?"

She turned her head and saw a young man, hardly older than herself, standing beside her. He was very handsome. He was dressed nicely, he was well kept, and he looked very much like a fine young gentleman. He had a very fresh, youthful, and healthy look about him. Smooth, olive skin; dark curls of thick hair; eyes dark in color but bright in youthfulness and liveliness; a very handsome face; and a kind, warm, and charming smile. When looking upon this young man one saw youthfulness, playfulness, and perhaps, even a bit of rebelliousness, but also goodness, gentleness, kindness, innocence, and purity. For a moment she did not recognize him, but then she remembered seeing him in church before, usually alone, sometimes coming in late. Nonetheless, this was the first time that he had ever spoken to her or she to him.

She smiled at him respectfully and shook her head. "No, not at all," she said, and she moved over to give him more room.

"Thank you," he said as he retuned the smile and sat down beside her.

At this first meeting, no more words were spoken between them.

It was nearly two months later, and Christine's father was working late again one night in October. At about sunset, it became clear to her that he father would not be home until after dark, and she sighed, knowing how hard he worked for her. Knowing that he would be weary and exhausted when he returned home that night, she decided that she would, at least, make him a good meal to eat, as most nights they eat only bread, small portions of vegetables, and if the were lucky, a little bit of spiced meat. Taking a few sous from the money that her father had given her, she left the house, went into the streets, and down to the market, and she brought enough ingredients that would allow her to make a fine stew for her father. When she was returning home and walking down the street, the sun had already set and darkness had fallen over the streets. The stars shined in the sky and the moon was nearly full, illuminating the streets with an eerie gray glow, as if the light of the moon was first falling through an old, dusty window that stood between Heaven and earth. A cold wind blew down the streets, chilling the passerby and making her shiver. Aside from the haunting whispering of the wind, the streets were silent and empty. Christine was alone.

This changed, however, when she was passing by a noisy pub. The two large doors in the from of the pub were gaping wide-open, and the fiery orange light of numerous candles and lanterns fell out of them and into the streets, dancing and flickering as it reflected off of the stone pavement of the road. Loud sounds of revelry, of men laughing, cheering, shouting, and jeering emitted forth from the pub. Three men were hanging around outside of the doors, all of them drinking and taking loudly.

Christen was walking past this pub, indifferent and not glancing at it, when she heard the three men outside of it begin to call out in their loud, drunken voices, "Hello, pretty woman! Lovely lady! Where ya' going?" It seemed that they were addressing her, but no, that could not have been right. They called her a pretty woman, and Christine did not know that she was pretty. Reasoning that these men were talking to someone else, she continued to move on, not glancing in their direction. "Hey, girl! Do you hear us? We're talkin' to you!"

Christine paused, confused, and turned in time to see the three men blundering quickly in her direction. Yes, it seemed that they had been talking to her. In only seconds they were upon her, and she took a step backward, stiffening uneasily. Christine had never been around a drunk man unless she was quickly passing by one in a café or a pub, both of which she scarily entered, but it was not hard for her to decide that all three of these men were heavily intoxicated. The stumbled slightly when they walked, they swayed when they stood, they spoke in loud, unclear, and bold voices, by the way there eyes trembled as they shifted, by the fact that their breath reeked of alcohol, and that all three of them still had a bottle in their hand, she did not have to guess. They were drunk.

"Where ya' going?" one of the men asked again.

Christian stared at him afraid. She did not answer.

"Girl, you hear us?" one of the others laughed, stepping closer to her. "We're talking to you. Where are you going, fine lady?"

Now, her stomach was twisting uncomfortable with dread, there was a tight lump in her throat, and her heart was pounding in his chest. She swallowed down her fear, and tried to move past these men. "Leave me alone," she said quietly, and she tried to go. She had barely gotten a step away from them, when one of the men caught her by her wrist and pulled her back.

"Leaving so soon?" he jeered in mockery, in humor, and in delight. "Where are you off to in such a hurry? Stay for a while, my darling."

Now, her heart was pounding faster, harder, and her fear was growing every second. "Let me go!" she protested in panic, and she tried to pull away from the man's grip. But he was too strong.

"Come now, darling. We won't hurt you. We only want to enjoy a pretty night with a pretty lady."

"Leave me alone!" Christine cried out, trying even more to get away. But they did not listen to her.

A voice was then heard calling out through the dark streets, and a fourth man exited the pub and hurried over to the woman and her three assailants. Christine's heart sank as she thought this man only a fourth drunkard like the others. The man stepped in front of the other men and said, "Messieurs, leave her alone."

The men momentarily released the girl, and at once, Christen pulled away from them and hurried several steps backward, putting much space between herself and these men, her heart still racing, her body still trembling, fear still raging inside of her like a reckless sea. Then, she turned her head to see the face of the fourth man. He was young and small, perhaps half the age, size, and strength of the other men. It only to Christine a moment to recognized him. He was the young man who had sat next to her in church nearly two months ago.

The three drunkards spent a few moments focusing their eyes on this young man. Then, realizing how much younger, shorter, smaller, and weaker he was than then, realizing that he was greatly outnumbered, and realizing that he was no threat to them, their faces twisted with disgust and anger, and one of them snarled, his words slurred and hard to interpret, "Leave us alone, boy. We weren't doin' nothing! This isn't your concern!"

Instead of obeying this command, the young man took a step closer and planted himself between the three men and the woman, standing bold and fearless before her, sheltering her and protecting her, making it clear that these men would have to first fight him if they wanted to get to the girl. "Just leave her alone," he said calmly, reasonably. "Let her be, and we can forget about this."

At this point, the men were glaring murderously at him, balling their hands into tight fists, looking as if they were ready to beat this boy to death with their bare hands, looking as if they were ready to strike him at any moment, looking as if they were ready to kill him. In their drunken minds that could not thick clearly or rationally, perhaps they were.

"You want her for yourself!" one of the men cried out in furious accusation.

He shook his head and said flatly, "I find no pleasure in using innocent young women." This only added to the hungry flames of these men's anger. One of them pulled his arm back, and was about to strike the boy, when he held up his hands and cried out, "What say you we leave this between you three and I, and we count the lady out of this?"

"Let us alone, boy! _You_ stay out of this!"

"What do you think of this?" the young boy said, as if a grand thought had suddenly come to his mind. "We will settle this in a game of cards?"

"Cards!?" one of them cried furiously and outraged.

"First, hear me out. It is a good offer. We play a round, we each get our own hand, we each play as separate players, but as far as the winnings go, it is all three of you against me. You will each put in ten francs. If I will, I get ten from each of you; that is a total of thirty francs. But if one of you wins, any one of you, if any one of you can beat me, then I will pay you _each_ thirty francs! That is ninety francs in all." A mischievous grin spread across his face, and he said, "How about it, boys? All three of you against one of me? What do you say? What have you got to lose? Ten francs when I beat you?"

At this point, it was evident that the boy had caught these men's attention. They were in nature, greedy, selfish, terrible men, who loved drinking, gambling, and sinning. This seemed a bit too great of an opportunity to pass up. But at last, too arrogant and too ignorant to listen to this boy, snapped at him, "Why should we? What makes we play you?"

He smirked. "Because, with all due respect, messieurs, I _will _beat you."

"You will not beat us!" another man roared, against considering hitting the boy, at once.

He shrugged and grinned. "Let's see, then. We'll go back into the pub, play some cards, have a drink…" A moment later under his breath he muttered in obvious disapproval, "…although, it does not appear as messieurs need anything more to drink… we'll see who wins, we'll settle this between us men, and we'll leave this young lady alone. What do you say?"

They did not answer for a moment. They were considering this proposal, hardly able to resist it. Then, at last, one of them skeptically, threateningly questioned, "Will you really give us each thirty francs? Ninety francs total?"

"Of course."

"You have ninety francs with you?"

"I might. They might be somewhere else. But when you win, they will be yours."

"I don't believe you! Show me the money now, or we have no deal!"

"I will show you the money once you have won."

"You _do_ have that to pay us, though, do you not?"

"Yes, I do."

"Why should we believe that!? Why should we trust you!?"

"I am a man of my word."

"Says you!"

"My word is all that I can give you. Trust it or don't."

This entire time, Christine had stood behind the young man, terrified, confused, and shocked. Shocked to see how brave he was, how fearless he was, how unafraid he was to stand up to these three men, who out numbered him, out powered him, and certainly would beat him in a fight. Shocked how he talked to them, how he challenged them, how he acted as if he had control over the situation rather than them. How calm he was, how reasonable he was, how brave he was. And she was shock that he was doing all of this, risking so much, for her, a girl whom he did not even know.

Now, she stood silently behind him and, peering over his shoulder, looked fearfully upon the three men as they considered this for a final time what they would do and as they made their decision. A long moment passed in silence, and everybody waited. Then, suddenly before anyone could react, stop it, dodge it, or even cry out, Christine watched her rescuer be slammed in the face by the heavy fist of one of these drunkards.

He bent over, surprised by the sudden blow, grabbing at his face, as the impact jolted his body, and as the pain hit him like a hammer, as it struck his face, rattled his skull, and slammed shut his jaws. A few seconds too late, Christine let out a soft cry as she watched in horror as this man bent over in pain, her hands covering her mouth. But only a moment later, he straightened back up and delivered, in return, an abrupt punch directly in the other man's nose.

Then there was a roar of fury, outrage, and wrath, and all three of these men sprang upon the one, all of them attacking him at once. While smaller, short, and perhaps, weaker than the others, he was also, it seemed, quicker, lighter on his feet, and smarter. He quickly duck and stepped to the side, dodging the next strike that came at him, instantly jumped back up to his full height and hit one of the other men, moving his arm quick and fast, bringing his fist up to strike the man under his chin, and then immediately bringing his arm in again, holding them out in front of but bent close to his body to protect himself. The other man's jaws painfully slammed shut, his teeth came suddenly down onto one another, and he badly bit his tongue. He stumbled backward, momentarily stunned, and the boy turned to face the other two men.

He put up a good fight. He was fast, clever, and surprisingly strong. As the other men blunder around, drunkenly swinging their fists at him, he moved quickly, swiftly, light-footed, soberly, and smartly. He seemed to know what he was doing, as if it were natural to him, a sport to him. He knew when to strike, when to defend, and when to wait. He knew how to fight.

But in time, he was beaten by recklessness, strength, and numbers. As he tried to defend himself from one man, a different man came up from behind him, grabbed him by his hair, yanked his neck backward, and flung him to the ground. He landed on his back, the impact jolted him, the air was knocked out of his lungs, but he immediately struggled to get up again. Still, before he could even get off of the ground, the men were on top of him. They pinned him down, and began to beat him, hitting him mercilessly and brutally, striking him with their firsts, kicking them with their feet, hitting him with the glass bottles in their hands, and unintentionally spilling alcohol all over him all the while. They struck his face, his ribs, his sides, his stomach, and they kicked him in his chest, his gut, and in places that did not amount up to an honorable fight. Then, as one of the men slammed a bottle into his ribcage, it shattered. The young man let out a sharp cry as a sudden pain, like being stabbed with a knife, and then a terrible burning sensation, like being set on fire, cut through his body. It was the shards of glass sinking into his flesh, cutting and mutilating it, and the alcohol spilling into his open wounds.

This was not a fair fight in the least. He was outnumbered, out matched, and these drunkards seemed to have no incentive to fight fairly. Fine. Then so be it.

A bottle was then thrown at him. It slammed into his side, and came to rest on the ground beside him. At once, seizing his chance, the boy snatched it up and slammed it into the forehead of the man who was kneeling before him and continuously hitting him in his face. The man let out a loud cry and fell backward as the glass shattered upon him. This was enough to startle the others, and the boy managed to struggle away from their gasp. He quickly, unsteadily and painfully but nonetheless, managed to get to his feet, his body bruised and beaten, blood coming forth from his nose and his mouth, dazed, weak, and injured. He got ready to fight again.

When the next man came at him, no longer trying to fight fairly, he did not hesitate to kick the man in the same place that the man had kicked him minutes before. The man gasped, stumbled backward, shriveled to the ground, and from his excessive intake of alcohol and from the pain, the man began vomiting up all of the liquor that he had put into his stomach. This left only the boy and one man to fight against. Now, the fight would be easy.

The young man won. This one boy had beaten all three of these grown men, who were bigger, stronger, and more brutal than he was. In the end, all three of these men struggled to their feet and staggered away, dizzy from drunkenness and from the blows that they had received during the fight. The young man watched them leave and flee back into the protection of the tavern. Perhaps, it would have been wiser if they had chosen to play cards. He spit a mouthful of saliva and blood onto the ground and used the sleeve of his shirt to wipe the blood off of his mouth and face. Then, at last, he turned to look at Christine.

"Mademoiselle, are you alright?" he asked her, at once.

She stared at him a moment with wide eyes and a white face, shocked and terrified, and she gazed upon him with horror, with fear, but also with wonder, amazement, and disbelief. "Yes, I am alright…" she finally managed to whisper.

"Good," he said with a soft sigh of relief. "They did not hurt you, did they?"

"No…"

"Good."

"But… but monsieur…" she began quietly, looking with horror upon the man's swollen and bleeding face, at the place where the broken glass had ripped through his clothes, penetrated his skin, cut him, and where the fabric of his shirt had been stained red in blood. "…you are hurt…"

He shrugged off the comment. "I'll be alright. Where are you going?" This was the same question that the other three men had asked her, but the meaning was utterly the opposite. The other men wanted to hurt her. This man wanted to help her. "A young woman should not be out alone this late at night. Let me walk you to your home."

Ignoring him, Christine said, "You should go to the hospital."

"I'm fine," he said as he slowly walked over to her, trying not to let her see him limp. "Don't worry about me. But are you sure that you are alright?"

"Yes, I am alright." Then, suddenly panicked and afraid again, she asked, "Do you think that we should get the police?"

He shook his head. "No. They do not need to hear about this. That would only make things worse. You are sure that you are alright?"

"Yes…"

"May I walk home with you, then, mademoiselle?"

"Monsieur, you can walk home with me, if you then allow me to help you. I can tend to your wounds for you…"

As he looked at her, a small smile came upon his lips, and he agreed. As she was leading him the short distance to her little house, she noticed that the man was in a lot of pain. He was struggling not to limp and struggling to hide his pain from her.

She quickly brought him into the house, led him down the narrow hallway, brought him into the living room, and told him to lie down on the couch. He sat instead of lying down, but as he let his body relax, as his muscles eased up, and as he let his wounded body rested upon the soft cushions of the sofa, he was unable to hide a heavy sigh of relief.

"I will be right back," Christine said as she left the room to retrieve cold water and rags. Her father was still not home. That was not good. He would have been better able to help this man that she would be. Through all of her life, whenever she was hurt or needed help, Christine's father would help her and make hear feel better. He was gentle, and kind, and wise. As she attempted to help this man who had saved her, she would try to be like her father had always been to her.

When she reentered the room, she caught a glimpse of the man wincing in pain, but as soon as he saw her, a he tried to hide it from her. This made her afraid. She went to him, kneeled down on the floor before him, wetted a rag in cold water, raised it to his still-bleeding face, and gently held it against a deep cut under his left eye.

After a moment, she turned her eyes and found herself looking back into his. He was gazing upon her in a way that other men did not. Most men, like the three men who had confronted her that night, looked upon her beauty with longing, lusting, selfish, and hungry eyes. But the way that this man looked at her was different. He looked upon her gently, tenderly, kindly. He saw her, and he knew that she was beautiful. He looked at her, and he saw an angel. But he did not long for her. He did not lust after her. He saw her eyes meet his, and he smiled at her.

She did not smile. Instead, she looked at him as if she was trying to figure something out about him. Then, at last, she asked, "Why did you do that? Those men could have killed you…"

He smiled slightly and shook his head. "They could not have killed me. They were not that dangerous. They were drunk and slow… and stupid."

"Yes, they could have," she insisted. "They hurt you badly."

"They haven't hurt me that badly. I'm fine," he said again. "Do not worry about me."

She suddenly frowned in confusion, as she poured water onto a clean rag, as the first rag was now red, and gently raised it to the man's bleeding mouth. "How did you beat them?" she asked. "They out numbered you, and they were older and bigger than you, yet you still defeated them."

He laughed softly and said, "They were drunk. And I know how to fight."

"I can see that," she said. Then with a playful smile she added, "You fight a lot, do you?"

He grinned and shook his head. "All the time. I'm a boxer," he explained. "I haven't gone to school yet so that is the best way for me to make money."

At the mention of money, Christine remembered the gambling proposal that this man had offered to the others. "You told those men that you would play them in cards, and that if they beat you, you would give them ninety francs? Would you really have paid them that much?"

He smiled somewhat guiltily. "I don't even have that much money to spend."

She frowned. "Then why did you tell them that?"

He smirked. "Because I knew that I would beat them."

"Oh, really?" She found herself laughing quietly. "You're that good of a gambler, are you?"

He shrugged and grinned. "I'm not bad." When he said this, however, it was obvious that he was better at gambling than he said, and Christine laughed and shook her head. "Also, they were drunk and dim. They would have been easy to beat."

Christine smiled as she finished tending to the wounds on his face, and she hesitated. There were wounds on his face, but she knew that the worst of the wounds would be on his ribs, where the broken glass of the bottle had cut him. The thought of asking this man, whom she barely knew, to take his shirt off in front of her made her very uncomfortable. But he needed help, and she had to do everything that she could. She began quietly, hesitantly, "Monsieur, you are bleeding. The glass cut you..." She trailed off uncertainly.

"I can deal with that myself later," he said, not wanting a girl so young to see the gruesome wounds that he expected to be beneath his shirt. But she insisted that he let her help him. At last, he sighed and unbuttoned his shirt, which was enough to reveal the worse wounds, but still hid much of the other damage to his body. Aside from dark red and black bruises that she could see were forming over the parts of his abdomen, his ribs, and his chest that were exposed, there were deep, bleeding cuts over the left side of his ribcage, and fragments of glass were still sticking in his skin in some places. Trying to be as gentle as she could, trying not to hurt him worse, Christine carefully removed the glass fragments with her hands, cleaned the mutilations with water, and then pressed a folded cloth to his wounds, trying to stop the blood flow. Then she sat there sadly, wishing that she could have done more for this man.

"Thank you," he said quietly as she knelt on the ground before him and held the cloth to his side. She looked up at him, and he smiled at her. Then he laughed softly and said, "It's funny how long we have been talking to each other and helping each other, yet I still do not know your name."

She smiled and answered, "My name is Christine." Christine. That was a pretty name. Very pretty, in fact. Beautiful. "What is your name, monsieur?"

"Grantaire."


	3. Musain Cafe

Chapter III

~Musain Café~

Jean Maximilien Lamarque was a good man. He was a commander in the army during the Napoleonic war and later became a member of the French Parliament. But when king, King Lewis Philippe, was once again seated on the thrown of France, Lamarque continued to fight for freedom. He declared that the new monarchy did not give the people rights, freedom, or liberty. He fought for liberty and he fought for the people. "The People's Man," he was called amongst the citizens of France. They loved him, adored him, and the followed him. He was their hero, their savior, and their only hope.

Yet, in the May of 1832, at the age of sixty-one, the good man fell ill. Fatally ill with the dreaded intestinal disease of Cholera. He was very sick, suffering and anguishing in hospitals, where the doctors could not save him. The date was now June 1, 1832.

Grantaire sat alone at his usual table in the corner of the Café Musain. He leaned heavily upon the wooden table, his shoulders resting upon the surface, his head resting in on hand, and the other hand tightly gripping his bottle. He was still tired, lightheaded, and nauseated from hangover, yet he was already drinking again. He had endured a hard night last night. Whenever Grantaire was in hardship, or pain, or grief, he turned to alcohol.

"Grantaire, put the bottle down," he heard Enjolras's voice order before he was even aware that the man had entered the room. Passing by Grantaire's table without a glance at him, Enjolras went on, "You should have no excuse to be getting drunk this early in the morning. Put the bottle down." Keeping his back turned to Grantaire, Enjolras went to his usual table, spread his maps, books, notes, and papers across the table, and immediately began to study them.

"I'm not drunk," Grantaire protested, speaking to Enjolras's back.

"You will be if you don't put that bottle down," Enjolras spoke, without so much as glancing over his shoulder to look upon who he was talking to.

"Not if I do not drink a lot."

"Grantaire, you _always _drink a lot. You are _always_ drunk," Enjolras snapped in scorn and in disdain. "Yet, you are too foolish and too cowardly to put that bottle down!" He finally turned around to look at Grantaire, and an expression of even greater disgust came upon his face. "Grantaire, what happened to you?" He was not concerned, only angry. "Were you fighting again, last night?"

Grantaire's face was swollen, blackened, and bruised, particularly around his left eye and the left side of his face. He had been fighting again. Grantaire shrugged and took a long drink from his bottle, before muttering, "Why does it matter?"

He heard Enjolras scoffed in disgust, and when he glanced up at him, Enjolras was glaring at him and shaking his head in disgrace. Enjolras did not have to say a word, but Grantaire knew what he was thinking: _Grantaire is a disgrace. He is a fool and a coward. All he is good for his drinking, gambling, hurting women, and fighting with men. _

Trying to justify himself, Grantaire spoke out, "you cannot blame me, Enjolras. The man hit me first."

"Is that so?" Enjolras muttered doubtfully, obviously unimpressed and unconvinced for Grantaire's story. "And why is that, drunkard? What did you do to him?"

Grantaire frowned in disappointment and in sadness. "I beat him in a game of card, that's all. Then, he did not want to pay me."

Enjolras scolded at Grantaire, made a sound of scorn, and turned away, as if this was an answer that he had been expecting. His back turned to him again, he said, "Of course, Grantaire. Gambling. That and drinking seem to be two of the only things that you believe in."

But Grantaire shook his head. "I do not believe in either of those things."

Enjolras looked at him doubtfully. "No? Wine, it seems, is your god."

Grantaire shook his head again. "I do not believe in gambling or in drinking, because they can betray you, just like everything else in this world."

Enjolras frowned at him in hatred. "Then, you do not believe in anything."

Grantaire hesitated a moment before he said quietly, "I believe in you."

As Grantaire had expected, Enjolras reacted the same way as he had when Grantaire had proclaimed these words the first time. Disbelief, scorn, and ridicule. "If that was true, Grantaire," said Enjolras, "you might have, at least, tried to listen to me. You might not have abandoned the Revolution, and the people, and the battle for freedom. You might have been willing to die for the cause that the rest of us are ready to give our lives for." With that he turned his back on Grantaire and did not look at him again. He did not see the pain in Grantaire's eyes.

By the time the sun had set, the Friends of the ABC had gathered in this café, and everybody was preparing for the Revolution. Enjolras was discussing plans for the uprising with Combeferre, studying maps and books, and Joly was standing close by, enjoying a cigar but listening all the same. Courfeyrac, Feuilly, and Jehan were hurrying around Paris and bringing all of the guns and weapons that they had managed to collect over the last several years into the café. Bahorel and Bossuet were in the café handing out pamphlets and talking to the people, trying to rally them and encourage them. All final preparations were being made. The people had remained silent long enough, and now they were ready to cry out. They were ready to rise. Their souls smoldered with a flame of defiance, and now, they only awaited the spark that would turn this candle into a roaring fire.

Of all of the Friends of the ABC, only two of them were not helping to prepare. Marius Pontmercy was not at the café. No body had seen him since the rally earlier that day, and he had not appeared at the meeting that night. No body knew where he was. Grantaire was sitting in his usual corner of the café, drinking from a large wine bottle, and talking to several women, at once, ignoring the progress that was happening in the café around him. He was already becoming intoxicated and getting close to drunk.

Star and moon were already high in the dark sky of the night, when the final member of the Friends of the ABC stumbled through the doors of the café. Enjolras raised his head and looked across the room. "Marius, you're late," he said. His voice was firm, but unlike she he spoke to Grantaire, it was also concerned. Enjolras and Marius were friends. They cared about each other.

Joly, who was standing nearly by and had been listening to Enjolras, suddenly turned his eyes, saw Marius, and exclaimed with laughter, "Marius, what's wrong!? You look as if you have seen a ghost!" Indeed, Marius's face was white, his eyes wide, and his expression vacant and preoccupied, as if he was seeing things that others could not.

Grantaire looked over his shoulder to see what was going on. He saw Enjolras looking at Marius with concern, Joly looking at him with amusement, and Marius coming into the room with an entranced expression on his face. At once, Grantaire knew that something new had happened to him.

Grantaire and Marius were great friends. If there was any link at all between Grantaire and Enjolras, it was Marius. Marius was brave, strong, loyal, and ready to fight like Enjolras, but he was also playful, easy going, and less passionate like Grantaire. He believed in the Revolution, but his heart beat for other worldly matters, as well, rather than for France alone.

Grantaire, turning his back to the women and forgetting about them entirely, strode across the room toward Marius, threw and arm around him, led him over to a table, and pushed him down into a chair. "What is it, Marius?" he asked grinning. "Here…" He took an empty mug off of an empty stop, poured some wine from his bottle into it, and placed it upon the table in front of Marius. Then he sat down in a chair across from Marius, and continued to drink from his bottle. "Have a drink, and tell us what is going on."

Marius, still looking as if he were in some trance, a shimmering light in his eyes, a wide smile on his lips, a illuminated glow upon his face, he took the mug into his hands, looked almost dreamily down into it, but did not drink from it. His mind was clearly in some place far away. Then, at last, smiling widely, he looked up at his friends, first at Grantaire and then at Joly, and he said, "A ghost you say?" He laughed and shook his head, still smiling. "Perhaps, you are right. It was… There was… She was…"

"_She?_" Grantaire exclaimed, at once. He leaned in closer over the table, suddenly very intrigued and interested. A grin spreading across his lips as he met Marius's eyes, and he said, "You mean to say that there is a girl?"

Marius smiled at him before dropping his eyes to look down at the mug in his hands. He was still smiling, joy radiated out from his entire being like rays of light, and the sweet intoxication of love burst out of his smile. It was clear to anyone who looked upon him that his mind was completely and utterly absorbed, captured, and possessed by one thought. The world was gone, and only _she_ was there for him to see. "Yes," Marius finally said in a whisper. "Like a ghost… One minutes she was there and… and the next she was gone."

Grantaire immediately burst out laughing, and Marius looked suddenly up at him, still smiling, but looking also nervous of how his friends were going to react. "Marius!" Grantaire cried, smiling, laughing, and shaking his head. "Hey, boys," he called merrily out to the others, seizing the attention of all of the students in the room. "Marius has done it, at last! Marius is finally in love!"

At this declaration, all of the boys turned their heads in interest or in surprise, including Enjolras, but only in surprise and in doubt. While Combeferre remained by Enjolras's side, all of the other students in the room, Bahorel, Bossuet, and Jean, came closer to listen. Marius laughed softly and happily, and looked back down at his mug again, gazing within it as if he could see the face of the girl in the surface of his red wine.

Grantaire laughed and turned back to look at Marius, grinning and smirking. Lowering his voice, he said excitedly and playfully, "So, Marius, my friend. I am agog, and I am aghast! Tell me all about it. Who is this girl? Is she pretty? What does she look like? Do I know her? I might have been with her once or twice. What's her name?"

During most of these questions, Marius only smiled and laughed, but when Grantaire asked, "What's her name?" Marius's face fell slightly, and he looked away again. He sighed and said in a soft voice so that only Grantaire could hear him, "I do not know her name."

"What!?" Grantaire cried out, laughing and smiling again. Marius looked up at him, but when he saw Grantaire smiling, he smiled, as well. Grantaire shook his head still grinning. "Marius, my friend, you are like no other boy in Paris! Twice in one night, you have astounded me!" Grantaire, still laughing, suddenly stood up from his chair, and shouted across the room to Enjolras, who had turned his back on Marius and on the others, who found him amusing, and Enjolras had resumed studying his maps. "Look here, Enjolras!" Grantaire cried, causing the chief to look irately over his shoulder at the drunken man. "You talk of battles, and bloodshed, and death, and Revolution! And here Marius comes like Don Juan, entranced, intoxicated, and in love!" He laughed loudly and cried, "This is better than an opera!"

When Enjolras learned that Marius was, indeed, in love, in disappointment and in shame, he had turned his back on him, and ignored everything that was happening behind him. But now, he had let this go far enough. This was absurd! Grantaire was right. They were on the brink of Revolution, and Marius, Grantaire, and even the other boys were more concerned with foolish, thoughtless, love affairs than the battle that lied ahead. Now, it was time for Enjolras to put an end to all of this foolishness.

He suddenly turned away from his maps, strode boldly across the room, and sat down at the table between Marius and Grantaire. Ignoring Grantaire, he looked around at the faces of all of his followers, the Friends of the ABC, and speaking with the tremor of a hymn and a voice like a fierce warrior but also a majestic angel, he said:

"It is time for us all to decide who we are. My brothers, who are we? For so long we have talked of rebellion, we have made plans, we have rallied the people, we have prepared to fight, we have awaited the time of the storm to come. Now, it is here. And what will we do? We call ourselves the Friends of the ABC, the fighters of freedom, the children of the Revolution, but is this who we really are? What we do tonight will decide who we truly are. Now, that the time has come, do we live up to the names that we have made for ourselves? Do we pursue freedom? Do we fight?" His voice darkened and became cold as he said, "Or have we only been playing a game all of this time? Do we back down? Do we turn away and flee in the face of death? Do we show the world that, in truth we are no more than rich young students, ignorant fools, fantasizing children, and selfish cowards?"

When Enjolras said "selfish cowards," just for a moment, Grantaire saw Enjolras look at him.

"Come now, my friends!" Enjolras cried out, and his voice suddenly ignited like a flame blazing with passion, excitement, courage, strength, and hope. "It is time! Let us live up to what we have called ourselves to do, let us do what we have been ready to do, let us fight for freedom, and let us set France free, or let us die trying to do it! Let us show the world who we really are!

"The time is near! So near, in fact, that it is stirring the blood in the veins of the people, singing in their hearts like the beat of the drum, burning in their souls like fire, the flame of rebellion and the flame of hope! The colors of the word are changing day by day! I tell you, my friends, the streets of Paris will run red with the blood of angry men, of the people, and the blood of the martyrs! The sky will be black in smoke as the earth cries with the sounds of our guns! Our banner will fly red above it all! And at last, the black of the night will end, and the sun will rise over a new world of hope and freedom!"

With this, courage, hope, and passion in his heart, Enjolras rose to his feet. But then Marius, as if he had not heard Enjolras's words, at all, smiled at Enjolras and said, "You were not there, Enjolras. You did not see her. Had you been there, you might have understood what it is like to have your entire world changed in only one moment, one… one burst of light! At this one moment, my whole world changed!" Now, Marius was gazing across the room and speaking quietly as if to himself. "Everything that I thought I knew suddenly changed, and I was… I was a different man…"

Enjolras looked down at Marius, in utter confusion, disbelief, shame, and disgust. It was to Enjolras, as if this man, whom he thought that he could trust, had suddenly turned on him, betrayed him, betrayed the Revolution, and betrayed the Friends of the ABC for something as foolish as love. "Marius!" Enjolras suddenly cried out in anger, in fury, and in outrage. "Marius, look at me!"

Marius, as if suddenly awake from a dream, jumped and looked abruptly at Enjolras with fright.

"We are on the brink of a war, Marius!" Enjolras thundered. "We are ready to give everything, our homes, our fortune, our freedom, and our lives for freedom and for the Revolution! We are ready to go to war! We are ready to die, Marius! Who cares about your lonely soul!? We fight for a purpose beyond all of us! Our little lives do not count, at all!"

This took Marius greatly aback, he recoiled away from Enjolras, and he dropped his eyes, looking shamefully at the floor.

"Now," Enjolras cried, once more, "my brothers, who are we? Are we truly who we stay that we are? Who will stand with me? Who will fight with me!?" At once, Combeferre stood by. Just after him stood Feuilly, Bahorel, Jehan, Bossuet, and Joly. Then, at last, Marius stood, as well. Perhaps, he loved this girl. But he also loved his friends. He would not betray them.

Grantaire did not stand. But he gazed with wonder up at Enjolras, who stood before him, and he thought with admiration and with a hopeless longing, _"Enjolras is such a great man. I wish, somehow, that I could be like him. I wish I could make him proud." _

"Listen, everybody!"

Everybody turned to see Courfeyrac, who must have entered at sometime during Enjolras's speech, standing by the entrance of the room. Beside him stood the child Gavroche. A homeless child of the streets, but with a passionate nature and a fighting spirit, like Enjolras. The room fell silent, and all attention was on Courfeyrac. He looked down at Gavroche. The child drew in a deep breath and told everyone what he had come to say, "General Lamarque is dead."

General Lamarque is dead. The words hit everyone like a knife through the chest. Following this blow, came pain, shock, disbelief, denial, sorrow, and then grief. General Lamarque, the People's Man, the hope of the oppressed, was dead. For several long moments, the room was silent, as no one could feel anything save for hallow emptiness, deep sadness, and dark despair with in them. Then, as last, this feeling began to evolve into something new, something great, and something terrible. Anger, defiance, courage, passion, will, and hope, began to fill the pits of their souls that had been empty before. Then, at last, the fire burst forth and erupted. This, the death of the good General Lamarque, was the spark that was needed to set the fire ablaze.

"Lamarque is dead," Enjolras repeated quietly, still gazing emptily upon the child. Then, he suddenly turned to the other boys, and they could all see the fire burning, blazing, roaring, raging, in his eyes. "General Lamarque has died," he told them all in a loud voice that was filled with pain, grief, and sorrow, but also bravery, courage, strength, readiness, and hope. "The great man of the people is dead. But he will not die in vain. He will not go forgotten. His dreams will not go unheard. We will rise now, and fight in his name, in his memory, and in his spirit! This is it! The death of Lamarque! This is the sign that we have awaited for so long! On the day of his funeral, the people will honor his name with rebellion, courage, and hope in their hearts! They will rise! They will fight!

The time is here! Let us welcome it gladly with courage and joy! Let us take to the streets with no doubt in our hearts, no fear in out minds, no shame in our souls! Let us fight for France, for the people, and for freedom! The people are ready! They will come now! They will come when we call! They will come to fight!"

Later that night, when Grantaire was leaving the Musain Café, he heard the loud, drunken voices of several men laughing, and shouting, and mocking someone. Then, he heard a young girl crying out, and telling the men to leave her alone, to let her go. He turned his head, and saw four men standing around a young woman. One of them was holding her wrist, and she was trying to get away, but they were too strong.

When Grantaire saw this, a sudden and unexpected pain like the blade of a dagger hit him in his heart, as a memory that he tried so hard to forget became clear again in his mind. He immediately looked away from these people, and tried to force the images out of his mind. But even if he could not see them, he could still hear them shouting.

"Monsieur!" he then heard the girl crying. "Monsieur, please! Please, help me!" Fear and dread filled Grantaire's gut, and he involuntarily, as if some other force had compelled him to do so, looked over his shoulder back toward these people. It was as he had feared. The girl was crying out to him, asking him to help her. "Monsieur, please, help me!" she cried again. Her face was pale, terrified, young, and innocent. There were tears in her eyes and running down her beautiful face. "Please!" she begged him, pleaded in despair, cried for mercy. "Please, help me!"

Grantaire's first impulse was to run over to this woman, to help her, to save her, to fight off these men with his bare hands, to face them unafraid to accept the consequences that he might have to suffer for it. Grantaire almost did this. He had already begun to take a step toward her. Then, something stopped him. Something like an old enemy, an old fear, an old pain, an old nightmare that had resurface in his mind to hold him back. He did not move.

"Please!" the girl cried out one more time. Grantaire looked sadly at her for a moment longer, then he sighed and looked away. Without a word, he turned his back on her.

As he walked away, he heard a strong, bold, fearless voice cry out behind him, "All of you, release this woman, at once! Take your filthy hands off of this innocent child, you fools! You cowards!" Grantaire did not have to look back to know that it was Enjolras. Yes, Enjolras was a good man. A brave man. He would save the girl. But Grantaire would not do that anymore.

"Not this time," Grantaire whispered as he walked alone down the dark streets of Paris. "Not ever again."


	4. I Dreamed a Dream

Chapter IV

~I Dreamed a Dream~

It was the December of 1819. The girl Christine was young, good, kind, caring, humble, virtuous, beautiful, innocent, and pure. So was Grantaire.

Grantaire was born into a wealthy family, but his father was rich, proud, arrogant, greedy, and selfish, and Grantaire was none of these things. Although the old man, in some secret chambers of his heart, did love his child, the father and son hardly got along. Grantaire lived in his parents' house, but he spent more time away from them then he did with them. He distanced himself with his father, and he lived in the town rather than his father's home. He came to know all of Saint-Mandé as if it were his own house. He knew every shop, every pub, every inn, every church, every storekeeper, every innkeeper, and almost every face he, at least, recognized even if he did not know the name to go with it.

He was good, smart, honest, and respectable, yet at the same time, playful, clever, and sometimes rebellious. As he became a young man, he lived mostly on his own, and he developed that independent spirit that is needed to create a bold, brave, strong, certain, and confident person. While his rich father continued to provided for him, Grantaire liked better to obtain his needs for himself. Since he was a child, he spent much time in the pubs, and he learned to gamble. By the time he was thirteen, he was a great gambler, am excellent card player, and a fantastic bluffer. He would have been just as fantastic of a liar, but Grantaire was an honest man, and he scarcely ever lied. He a fair bit of profit through card playing. He learned to fight, and he became a boxer, which allowed him to make more money for himself. Over the years, he learned, also, to become a knowledgeable cudgel player. So, sometimes when his father would say, "Son, take this money and buy yourself a new coat," Grantaire would reply, "I have enough to pay for it myself, but thank you, nonetheless, monsieur."

As for alcohol, Grantaire spent much time in pubs, in cafés, and in bars, and many of his friends were grown men, gamblers, fighters, and drinkers. Sometimes, Grantaire had a drink. He enjoyed a drink with his friends in the evenings, but he was never irresponsible. He had never been drunk, he had never been addicted to alcohol, and he had never been a slave to his bottle.

Now, was the December of 1819, and Grantaire was sixteen years old. Only two months earlier, in October, he had met Christine. Grantaire, even as he distanced himself from them to be on his own, loved his parents and he loved his family. He did not believe in everything that they believed in, but he believed in God, in righteousness, in goodness, and in love. He loved his family. He had never loved a woman.

From that dark, cold night in October, Grantaire had never been the same. He could not understand this feeling that came into him every time he saw Christine. After that night, they had seen each other often, sometimes chance meetings and other times on purpose. Whenever he was with her, he was overcome with a deep warmth in his heart that seemed to fill his bosom so greatly that he felt that it would burst out of his chest. For the first few weeks, he did not understand it. He did not know what is was love—to really love—anyone.

Then, one Sunday morning, when he was sitting at mass, he turned his head and saw Christine and her father in the back of the church, the same place where he had sat with her on their first meeting. He gazed upon her for a long time, thoughtfully and lovingly, he watched her pray to God, and he tried to decide what it was about his woman that was so different from all of the others. Then, the priest said, "God is love. He loved us so much that He gave up His only Son to die for our sins. He gave up His Son to die for us." Then he read the verse from John 15:13: "Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one's life for one's friend."

Then, as if his eyes had suddenly be opened and he could see, Grantaire realized something that seemed so obvious yet so concealed, so simple yet so powerful… _"I love her." _

Now, it was early morning in Saint-Mandé, and the sun was just peeking over the distant hills that surrounded the town. The sky was a pale pink color in the light of the rising sun. The colors of the world were gone and made pure, as the earth was covered in a blanket of white snow. Snow covered the earth, the fields, the streets, dressed the roves of houses and the steeples of churches, it sat in the frames of windows, and clung to the edges of doors. The morning was beautiful. The air was cold, but not harsh, violent, or bitter cold. It was cold and pure, clean, fresh, and replenishing as one drew deep breaths of it into their lungs. The air smelled of winter—that scent that comes once the autumn has pasted away and, peacefully like day turning to night, winter sets over the world—of snow, and of the wood that burned in fireplaces of every home. Thin whips of smoke rose out of the chimneys, which stood tall like statues of the snow-topped houses. In this early, fresh, new, youthful, pure morning, snow was softly falling from the Heaven, drifting down to the earth as if on the wings of angels. It was the morning of Christmas Eve.

Grantaire stood outside of the little home, where Christine lived with her father. He stood a fair distance away from the house, out in the snow-covered street, and he remained there, still, silent, and waiting. He was waiting for Christine. She did not know that he was waiting for her. She was not expecting him. He had not expected her to find him for some time, as it was still early in the morning. But he stood out side of her house in the snow, nonetheless, and he waited for her to find him.

He was standing with his back to the house and he was gazing out into the town, when he heard a soft voice speak behind him, "Grantaire?"

He turned around, and happiness, joy, and loved flooded into his heart, as if the sun had rose over him to melt away the chill of winter. Even standing out in the snow, he was no longer cold. Christine was standing in the open entrance of her house, holding the door open with one hand, looking out at him, and smiling at him with at sweet, beautiful smile that radiated as brightly as the sun.

A warm smile came over Grantaire's lips, as he slowly walked up to the house to approach her. "Good morning, mademoiselle," he said with a respectful bow and a playful grin.

Her smile brightened all the more, as she nodded and said, "Good morning to you, as well, monsieur." Then she laughed and said, "Grantaire, what were you doing here? Why did you not knock? It is warm in here, but it is snowing outside! You will catch your death!"

Grantaire smiled and shook his head. "It's not so cold out here. It's a beautiful morning, in fact."

"You were simply going to stand outside my house without saying a word? What were you doing?"

Smiling at her gently, tenderly, and lovingly he said, "Waiting for you."

"Simply waiting? Why didn't you come to get me?"

"I didn't want to wake you."

She smiled, and a playful gleam coming into her eye again, she said, "I would not have minded you waking me, so long as you had a good explanation."

Grantaire smiled and let out a soft laugh. "Christine, I want to show you something," he told her, becoming serious after a moment. "Can you walk with me now?"

Her face brightened at the delight that she would be able to walking with Grantaire, whom she loved, whom she knew loved her in return. Never once had they said to the other, "I love you," as this did not need to be said. They both knew that they loved the other and that the other loved them. This phrase, "I love you," had been said countless times, not with their words but with their hearts. Words can lie, but the heart is always truth. Grantaire was the first man that Christine had ever loved. Likewise, Christine was the only woman the Grantaire had ever loved. They were both young, innocent, pure, and righteous. They were only children, pure and good, and deeply in love with each other.

Christine disappeared into her house, and only a few minutes later, reappeared wearing the same white dress that she had been wearing on the night that she had first met Grantaire. The sleeves of the dress covered her arms, but fabric with thin and was little protecting against the cold. As soon as she stepped foot out of the house and went to Grantaire's side, he took off his coat and wrapped it around her shoulders. She protested, but he insisted. Then she laughed, wrapped her arms around him, and they held each other in a tight embrace.

"Merry Christmas, Christine," Grantaire said softly, gently into her ear as he held her, and she said in return, "Merry Christmas, Grantaire."

When they broke away for this embrace, the embrace of two bodies that share one soul, two hearts that beat as one, they started through the streets joined together, her clinging tightly to his arm. They went on this fresh winter morning through Saint-Mandé, which was grabbed in a beautiful gown, pure and white like the dress of an angel, of snow.

They talked to each other softly, gently, and happily. They smiled at each other with joy, adoration, and with love. Christine held tightly to Grantaire's arm, and he kept a hand pressed tenderly upon her hand that clung to him. Her hand would have been cold in the brisk air of the winter, but Grantaire's hand over hers kept it warm. Indeed, there was an unexplainable warmth that filled each of them, and whenever they touched each other, this warmth seemed to pass into the other. This was a happiness, a joy, a passion, a holy sacrament that comes for the Devine. This is one of the things that the sinful race of man will never be able to fully understand. When a man is filled with love, he is filled with the very presence of God. God is Love.

In neither of these two children's lives had either of them been so happy. Grantaire had never known true happiness except when he was Christine. Never had he known love except when he loved this woman. He loved her, and he loved nothing else. She was the first woman that he had ever loved. She was the only woman that he had ever loved. His parents he respected and perhaps, he loved, but he never shared with them the divine love from the Holy One. Not until he loved Christine did he know what love was. In this time, he was happy, he was honest, he was loyal, he was kind, he was virtuous, he was pure, he was innocent, and he was good. He did not need to have a bottle in his hand. All he needed was her hand in his own.

Grantaire brought Christine to the church, and then he stopped and smiled at her. She smiled back at him, and raised her eyebrows. "So… why did you bring me here?"

He smiled at her playfully and happily. "This is where I first met you," he said, and she let out a soft laugh, beaming at him with overwhelming joy and boundless love. "Come on, I want to show you something," Grantaire said, after a moment, motioning with his head for her to follow him, and then he led her, who was still holding tightly to his arm, around the side of the church and behind it. Here in the back courtyard of the church, there was a grand garden. In the spring, in summer, and even in the late months of the autumn, this garden flourished with magnificent splendor and glory, trees of green; large, blooming, blossoming plants; flowers of all colors, of red, of blue, and of pure white. It was a glorious and beautiful garden. Now, in the late days of December, the snow covering the earth, the winter fallen over the world, no flowers of blossoms were blooming. But the trees continued to stand, like stiff monuments, in the garden of white. The leaves were gone, but the branches were not bare, as the leaves that had clothed the trees had been replaced by pure coats of snow.

In the center of the garden, now lightly brushed in snow, tall, reverent, solemn, holy, standing still, strong, unwavering, and unchanged by the snow, the rain, or the sun, there was a marble depiction of two angels kneeling down before a man whose arms were outstretched, whose palms were open, and whose cold, stone eyes were gazing up into the Heavens. This was an image of the Christ. His arms were outstretched, for He opened His arms to the world by stretching them out and laying them upon a wooden cross. His palms were open, for He reached out to save the sinners by opening His hands for the Roman soldiers to drive iron nails through them and nail Him to the cross on which He was to die. His eyes gazed up into Heaven, for even as He suffered pain, torture, torment, humiliation, disgrace, forsakenness, and death, He continued to praise the Father, whom because of Christ, all of God's children will endure with forever.

This Christmas Eve morning, in the white blanket that covered the earth, in the soft snow that fell gently to the ground, in the pink light of the rising sun, the garden was more beautiful now that it could have been on any other day of the year. The world was beautiful, the snow was beautiful, the sky was beautiful, the morning was beautiful, Saint-Mandé was beautiful, the church was beautiful, the garden was beautiful, the two young lovers were beautiful. Everything in this moment was so beautiful that it seemed to possess a holy, divine, spiritual glory, as if on this Christmas Eve morning, God had blessed the world with a gleam of Heaven's splendor.

"Here…" Grantaire said, leading her into the garden. He stopped to stand in the midst of it, and they both looked out in awe at the monument in the center of the garden, the statue of the Lord, which stood like an angel in the cold snow before the warm light of the rising sun. "Isn't it nice?" he asked quietly.

"It is beautiful…" she whispered. "I do not think that I have ever seen the garden look so beautiful before."

Grantaire turned his head to look away from all of the glory of this Christmas Eve morning, and he fixed his eyes upon something that to him was far more beautiful. The young woman beside him. Christine was still looking out into the garden, and she did not notice Grantaire was looking her. A soft smile spread across his lips and he gazed upon her, tenderly, kindly, lovingly. He loved her so much. Not even to himself could he explain it. He did not understand this feeling, this inner joy, this passion that, until he had met this girl, he had never known. Grantaire remembered back to that day in this very church when the priest had quoted, "Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one's life for one's friend." Grantaire would have laid down his life for this woman. He would not have hesitated. Any pain, any torture, any punishment, any death, he would have gladly accepted if it took these sufferings away from Christine. Yes, he loved her. Greater love has no one than he who would give his life for another.

Before he could stop himself, Grantaire said quietly, "It's beautiful… but not as beautiful as you."

Christine turned her head to look at him, a look of surprise and of heartfelt love on her face. Their eyes met, and for a moment, they said nothing but only looked into the eyes of the first and the only person that they had ever loved. Christine opened her lips to say something, but before she could speak, Grantaire dropped his gaze to stare at the snow beneath his feet, released her hand, pulled away from her, and turned his back to her.

He drew in a deep breath and slowly let it out. Christine could see that he was nervous. In fact, she could not tell, but he was terrified. His heart was suddenly racing in his chest, his lungs were fighting to breathe faster and he was fighting to make them breathe slower, his innards seemed to be twisting around in his gut, knotting, ensnaring, and strangling one another, in the cold morning and in his fear, he struggled to keep his body from trembling. He stuffed his hands into his pockets so she could not see them shake, he shifted his weight back and forth on his feet, he swayed slightly where he stood, unable to remain still, and with his eyes, he looked at the snow, the trees, the garden, the sky, the statue in the courtyard… everything except for Christine. He had already decided what he was going to say, but now that the time had come, he was afraid to stay it. He was silent for a long time, and the girl behind him was silent, only waiting for him, waiting to listen to him, waiting to follow him. At last, he drew in a deep breath, shakily let it out, and looking out at the beauty of the garden, out past the grand statue, out into the sky that cast a warm glow upon his face, he forced himself to begin:

"I know that I'm supposed to ask your father before I ask you this… I know that I'm also supposed to ask my parents, and I er…" He drew in a deep breath before stumbling over his words for a moment, "But I haven't asked them. I haven't asked your father. I haven't asked my parents. I haven't even told my parents. I er… I haven't told anyone." He drew in a deep breath again and slowly let it out, before he quickly dropped his eyes to the snow under his feet, and said, "I know this is not how I am supposed to do this, but… but I wanted to ask you first. I have to tell you…"

"Grantaire…" he heard Christine's voice say gently, and a moment later, he felt the soft, gentle, warm touch of her precious hand against his cheek. He raised his eyes, and for the first time, though only for a moment, their gazes met again. She smiled gently, compassionately at him, smiled, and said, "You know that you can tell me anything. You can trust me. I will understand."

Grantaire could only bear to look into her eyes for a moment longer before he looked away again. She did not know what was coming… He pulled a deep breath into his tumbling lungs. "I er..."—he swallowed the knot in his throat—"I wanted to… I have to… I need to ask you something… I know that I'm not supposed to do this like this, but I… I have to." Finally, he turned back to her and looked straight into her eyes. He would look at her as he said these next words. Just as he had to tell her this, he had to look at her as he said it. "Christine…"

She looked back at him, waiting to hear, waiting to know, waiting to understand… A shadow of a forced smile appeared on her lips, as she waited in apprehension. "Grantaire?"

He gently took both of her hands into his own, and he felt the warmth from her flesh pass into his own. He looked down at her fair, sweet hands in his own for a moment before he raised his eyes to gaze into her eyes, again. He swallowed one more time, let out one more breath, and then forced himself to say, "Christine, I love you."

She stared at him, looking into his eyes, her face not changing, but her heart swelling and bursting with joy and with love. Of course, he loved her. She had already known that for a long time. And she loved him. He had known that for a long time, as well. But neither of them had ever said it. He had never said it. She had never said it. Now, at last, to finally hear Grantaire pronounce these words to her, to finally hear him confirm the truth, to finally hear him say, "Christine, I love you," this brought her more joy than she could have imagined, more joy than she had felt in all of her life. In all of her wondrous moments with Grantaire, this was one moment that, if it was possible, was even happier and more beautiful than all of the others! This was happiest moment of her life! But Grantaire had not finished yet.

His heart beating so loudly that it pounded in his ears and that he was sure that Christine could hear it as well, he drew in one last breath, let it out, gazed into the eyes of the woman that he loved, and said in a voice so soft, so delicate, so sincere, so precious, "Christine… I want you to marry me."


	5. June 5, 1832

Chapter V

~June 5, 1832~

The date was June, 5, 1832. It was the one of those grey days. The sky was hidden under a thick blanket of pale grey clouds, a dreary shadow was cast upon Paris, the streets and everything in them was hued grey, and light falls of rain came and went throughout that entire day. Today was the day of General Lamarque's funeral. Crowds of working men, housekeeping women, students, the rich, and the poor, alike, gathered in the streets of Paris in hopes of beholding the presence of the fallen general one last time before his body was brought back to his birthplace in southwest France. They watched the hearse, accompanied by priests, officers, and great ranks of soldiers, role slowly through the streets of Paris. Some stood stiff, still, and silent, like statutes with cold, hard, and lifeless faces, while others grieved and wept bitterly, sobbing and burying their faces in the arms of their loved ones, while still others beheld this mournful sight with reverent sorrow, grave respect, a will to alleviate the good man's memory in their minds, a passion to fight in his name in their hearts, and a burning anger at injustice in their souls. The masses grew to what some say was over 100,000 people. That was when it all began.

It was as if a spark had suddenly been dropped onto the street, and all of the city immediately went up in flames. Furniture of all sizes and types—tables, chairs, couches, desks, dressers, pianos, instruments, mattresses, beds, wagons, carriages, wheels, boxes, coffins, everything that anyone could find—was thrown out of the windows of houses, apartments, inns, stores, shops, and pubs and hurled down into the streets, where they were swept up by people below and constructed into the barricades. The paving stones of the streets were torn up, young trees were uprooted, fences were ripped out of the earth, stairs and railings were axed apart from the foundations, and all of these things were added to the barricades. At last, the barricades arose! All throughout the streets of Paris there were barricades, behind each of which the rebels waited, armed with whatever weapons they had, a few guns and a few muskets, loaded with self-made bullets that had been formed out of melted glass, a few sabers, a few knives, along with kitchen knives, blacksmith's tools, hammers, picks, spades, anything that they could find. A few perilous rebels against the entire army, with poor weapons, and no training. Yet, they were ready to fight. The people had finally come forth from the darkness. Now, they were ready to fight, despite the consequences that awaited them.

On this same morning, Grantaire, Bossuet, and Joly were sitting around a table in the lower level of the Café Musain, safe out of the chill of the falling rain, and enjoying breakfast. Bossuet was talking happily and in a carefree manner, joking and laughing about his bad luck. Joly, on the other hand, was in quite a panic, raving about the bad cold that had befallen him, and continuously hoping and re-hoping that it was not the beginning of smallpox: someone has mentioned the disease earlier that morning, and Joly had cried out, "Good Lord! I hope, by God, this curse is not what has become of me!" and ever since, he had been unable to get the idea out of his head. Bossuet continuous assured him that this was not the case. "You are not the one with bad luck, Joly," he had joked, but when Joly was too afraid to find this humorous, he said instead, "Do not be ridiculous, Joly! It is only a cold! Hypochondria has gotten the best of you, again!" It was nearly half of an hour before Joly finally calmed down a bit, but shortly after this, he began raving over a new panic, about the bad oyster that he had swallowed and the fear that it would make him sick.

During all of this time Grantaire sat at the table opposite of Joly, listening to him and Bossuet in both amusement and annoyance. While they were eating, he was drinking. He had already drained an entire bottle, and now he was working on the second. He had not even eaten breakfast yet, and already he was intoxicating himself. He was mostly silent throughout the morning, as he was absorbed in the thoughts of General Lamarque's death, of the Revolution, of the Friends of the ABC, and of what Enjolras planned to do today. He doubted that it would happen. He doubted that the people would rise. Then again, he doubted everything. But there was one thing that he did not doubt. Enjolras. If there was any man who could rally the people of Paris, convince them to give their lives for the sake of freedom, and lead them into battle against injustice, it was Enjolras. The more that Grantaire thought about it, the more he began to believe that there was a chance that this would happen, and the more he began to dread and detest the moment when it did.

Bossuet and Joly were in mid-conversation when Grantaire suddenly burst out, "This is outrageous!"

"What is outrageous?" Joly asked, his voice horse and his sinuses stuffed up from his cold, as he and Bossuet turned to Grantaire with a start.

"All of this!" Grantaire cried out. "The Revolution, General Lamarque, the Friends of the ABC!"

"Grantaire!" Bossuet suddenly hissed at him, and looking nervously over his shoulder, "Keep your voice down!"

As if Bossuet had not spoken, Grantaire went on, "Enjolras wants a revolution. This is well," he said bitterly, even mockingly. "This is splendid! There will be a revolution! The people will rise, all of us will fight, and then all of us will die! Enjolras believes in General Lamarque, he believes in the Revolution, he believes that the people will rise, but this is what I believe: Anything that a man believes in will betray him. That is simply the bitter truth of life, the bitter fruit that grew on the tree in the Garden of Eden, the fruit of which Adam ate to damn the world and curse us all. Now, a man can not believe in anything, because everything that he believes will find a way to betray him. Perhaps, Enjolras is right: the people will rise today at the funeral procession. Today, perhaps, they will be ready to fight. But what about tomorrow? After today's gone by and the night closes in, after they have witnessed that death is not a glory but a horror, after they have lived through battle, heard the guns screaming, smelled the odor of the smoke in the air, seen the blood draining out of the dying bodies of their fellow bothers, after they watch the person that they love—"

Grantaire suddenly halted in his speech, as if his tongue had suddenly been cut off, as if a knife had suddenly pierced his body, or as if he had suddenly choked on the wine that he was drinking, but as there was no wine in his moth, he must have choked on his own words. He took a brief moment to look away from Bossuet and Joly, to fight some unformed expression off of his face, and to clear his throat. Then, he raised his eyes to look upon his friends again and he went on as if nothing had happened, "After they watch the people that they love die before them, _then!_ Then, my friends, they will no the truth. They will not be standing along side us singing of Revolution, but they will be locked away in the protection of their houses, abandoning us, hiding from the battle, and listening to the guns fire as the bullets strike us down. Perhaps, the people will rise to day, but they will betray us tomorrow! And as for the Revolution, we cannot win. It will not bring anyone any good. It will only bring trouble, pain, suffering, humiliation, punishment, and death. That is why the Revolution is outrageous. The world is outrageous… and _stupid! _Anyone who thinks any otherwise of any of this is stupid! I, myself, am stupid, because even though I know the truth about all of this, I stay with the rebels." He sighed and shook his before taking a long drink from his bottle. "That is why it is best not to believe in anything," he finally closed his argument. "Anything that a man believes in, or trusts in, of has faith in, or loves will betray him and will leave him."

When he had finished, Bossuet and Joly only stared at him, unsure what to stay, and unsure how to respond, unsure what had brought about this sudden harangue. But they did not have to say anything. Grantaire did not seem to expect them to say anything or even what them to say anything. He said what he needed to say, and as soon as he finished, he looked away from his audience, he gazed silently across the café, lost in his own thoughts, seeming to forget the presence of his friends, and he continued to drink.

It was only minutes later when the young urchin boy arrived with a message for Monsieur Bossuet from "the big blonde man." That was Enjolras. Enjolras, who was small to a man his age but "big" to the little child who had been sent to deliver this message. The message was "A—B—C." After they had paid the child and he went off, happy that he might be able to but himself food that day, Grantaire sighed and took another long sip from his bottle.

"Enjolras sends a message for Bossuet," he said grimly, "because Joly is sick and Grantaire is drunk." He sighed again and, this time, shook his head, as well. "Enjolras despises me," he said aloud, but as if he was talking to himself. "He has good reason to. He is a good man. A righteous man. And I'm not. Because Enjolras is also a wise man, he distances himself from people like me."

Joly was listening to Grantaire, confused and unsure what to say, but Bossuet was too busy thinking about the message that he had received from Enjolras. "A—B—C," he said thoughtfully as he gazed out of the window and down onto the streets. "Meaning, of course, general Lamarque's funeral."

"Yes," Grantaire agreed, "and the 'big blonde man is Enjolras. He sends the message for you, because the ill-man and the drunkard, apparently, cannot be trusted."

"I can be trusted!" Joly protested, but it sounded more like "I dan de dusted!" because of his cold. Grantaire merely waved a hand at him, and Bossuet went on as if he had heard neither Grantaire's nor Joly's comments.

"Shall we go?" Bossuet asked turning to the others.

At once, Grantaire's face changed into a look of disdain and displeasure, he vigorously shook his head, and Joly immediately began to protest, "It's raidig! I swore to go through fire, dot water. I do not wadt to catch cold!"

"I staying here," Grantaire told them. "I prefer breakfast to a hearse."

"You're dot eden eading, Grandaire!" Joly began to complain. "You're only drinkig! You drink doo much, Grandaire. Do you realize how unhealdty that is? It could kill doo!"

"So could going into the streets, hosting a revolution against the King, and fighting in a war a few students against the entire army," Grantaire countered, suddenly irritable. He hated it whenever Joly, or anybody, especially Enjolras, told him to stop drinking. They made it sound so easy, as if he could simply chose to put his bottle down and never pick it up again. They made it sound as if he had a choice.

"Conclusion," Bossuet, who had ignored this last conversation altogether, went on, "we stay here. We can miss the funeral and without missing the rebellion."

So it was decided. But not long later, loud voices could be heard crying out in the distance, echoing down the streets and to the Café Musain. The three young men could not agree on, however, if these were merely the natural sounds of the funeral or if these were the sounds of revolution. Bossuet insisted that it was revolution, Joly swore that it was only the funeral, and Grantaire hardly seemed to care either way. As the minutes passed, the shouts began to grow louder, and revolution seemed to be the heart from which thee cries beat. Much to their displeasure but for their loyalty to the Friends of the ABC, Bossuet and Joly departed into the streets, but Grantaire stayed behind.

Now, he was in this empty room, surrounded by the empty chairs and tables, in the dim and flickering orange light of the candles, and he was all alone. For several minutes, he sat still in his chair, listening to the silence, to the faint echoing in the streets, and to the sound of the falling rain. He was alone. Enjolras, Bossuet, Joly, all of them, were out there fighting for freedom, risking their own freedom and, perhaps, their lives, while Grantaire sat alone in this dark, empty, gloomy café. Enjolras was right. He was a disgrace, a fool, and a coward. He hated being like this. But, again, did he have a choice? Once. But, now, it was too late for that.

Grantaire sighed and looked away from the entrance of the Musain, which he had been staring at ever since his friends have left him. Now, he found himself looking upon the bottle that sat in the center of the table. For several long seconds, Grantaire only stared at it with a stone face, his eyes cold and his heart hard. He could see shining in the black glass of his bottle, the reflection of a man's face staring silently back at him. For a long time, Grantaire remained where he was and only stared silently at the face in the bottle. Then, at length, he opened his lips and whispered into the silence in a soft voice that was bitter like the frost on his heart and cold like the darkness in his soul: "I hate you."

Was he talking to his bottle or to the face that he saw reflected within it—his own face? Who could have told? Not even Grantaire knew for sure whom he had meant to direct his words at. Which did Grantaire hate more: his bottle or himself? He hated them both.

In a strange and terrible way, Grantaire hated and loved his bottle at the same time. He loved it, because the cruel hearts of men love the sweet intoxication of sin, because he could not live without it, and because it was his only escape from the cruelty and pain of the world. Whenever he was in pain, or fear, or torment, or sorrow, or grief, or misery, Grantaire had no one to turn to save for alcohol. While people like Enjolras would only inflict more pain upon him, alcohol could always be trusted to make it go away or, at least, to numb it a bit, or if that was not enough, to drag him under unconsciousness. Then, Grantaire would not have to feel the pain again until he woke up the next morning hung-over and sick.

Yet, even more, Grantaire hated it. Long ago, Grantaire had turned to alcohol, and he had struck a lethal bargain with the Devil. If he turned away from holiness and to drinking, to darkness, and to sin, then these things would make some of his pain would go away. But a bargain such as this has a terrible price. Satan had ensnared Grantaire in his trap long ago when he was weak and vulnerable, and sin had ruined him. It had turned him into the disgraceful man that he was today. Today, Grantaire was a slave to his bottle, a slave to his sin, and a slave to the darkness that he had chosen over the light. Now, he was trapped. Even as he hated the darkness so much, he could not turn away from it. He was a slave, bound by chains that were too strong for him to break. Now, he could not have turned away from darkness, or sin, or drinking even if he tried, even though he wanted to.

"I hate you," Grantaire whispered again, this time speaking to his bottle. Then, he let out a low moan of defeated, slumped over on the table, let his head fall into his hands, buried his face in his palms, and said again in a weak, muffled voice, "I hate you," this time speaking to himself. Even so, only a few minutes later, he was clutching his bottle tightly in his hands, as if he feared someone was going to come take it away from him, and he was drinking, more, faster, and deeper than he had been all morning.

He sat at the table, drowning himself in his liquor, drinking himself deep into drunken intoxication. He had finished his first two bottles and was working on the third, which Joly and Bossuet had been using to fill their glasses, when he heard a soft voice ask him, "Are you alright, monsieur?"

Grantaire lowered his bottle and raised his eyes to look upon the person who had addressed him. Before him stood a young woman. Young, yet by tireless labor, wariness, and poverty she was made old. When the sun rises, it is young, and fresh, and pure, and for that short time, the sky is remarkably beautiful; during the day, the sun is lovely, but not so beautiful as it was in the dawn; then, at last, the sun sets, and that beautiful light fades into the darkness of night. Such is, also, the life of a woman. She is beautiful her early years, when she blooms and blossoms in the fullest radiance of her life; once she is older and has born children, she is still pretty but not as beautiful as she was before; and at last, as her beauty fades, she becomes old, withered, tired, and worn by the trials of the trackless road of life.

The girl who stood before Grantaire now, was young, but it seemed that the night of her life had come too early, and her beauty was already fading away. Trials, hardship, struggle, pain, suffering, misery can do this to a person, and can bring old age upon her when she is still young. Grantaire knew the girl, at once. She was one of the two servants at the café. He did not know her name, but he knew her face and she knew his. Whenever he entered the café, without having to ask, she would bring him two bottles of wine. The boys called her Fricassèe, and the over servant girl they called Chowder, as these two young girls were never known by any other names. Fricassèe was shinny and frail, poorly clothed, dirty, and always so tired and weary, she had pale skin, dark rings under her eyes, and a sickly look about her.

Grantaire looked up at her without smiling. "Splendid, mademoiselle," he said with a heavy sigh and a sip from his bottle. "Absolutely splendid."

Fricassèe remained where she stood for a moment, saying nothing but staring at Grantaire, watching him drain gulp after gulp the liquid in his bottle, with an uncertain and troubled expression on her face. Then, at last, she came to a conclusion, and said in a soft, reluctant, and sky voice, "Perhaps, you should get some rest, monsieur… and stop drinking…"

Grantaire choked on his wine for a moment, before he pulled the bottle away from his lips, scoffing and laughing and shaking his head at the same time. He turned to let to let his eyes rest upon the girl before him. He saw that she was young, yet exhausted and drained like an old woman. He saw that she was very ugly, yet somehow, beneath it all, he could see a faint shadow of a lost beauty. Like Grantaire, himself, there was a time when this girl had once been beautiful, but now only a vague and fading reflection of that could be seen upon her. Perhaps, had her life been kinder to her and had things been different, she still would have been very beautiful today. But her life had not been kind to her. Life was not kind. The world is cruel, and it is not merciful. The poor girl had not had a good life, yet Grantaire could not bring himself to pity her. There were others who suffered far greater than she. "No," he said, at last, his voice quiet and sad. "Drinking is the only thing that can help me."

When he said this, the expression on the tired face of this girl became even more concerned, and she frowned at him. "You do not look well, monsieur," she said at last, as she looked at the redness in Grantaire's eyes, the pallor of his skin, and the sickly shadow that had fallen upon his face, all due to the excessive intake of alcohol.

Before she could go on, Grantaire, made outspoken and quick to speak by his drunkenness, interrupted, "Neither do you. Maybe, _you_ should sleep. When is the last time that you have slept? A few years ago? Every time that I see you, everyday, since as long as I can recall, you have been here working and you have looked exhausted. Why is that? Why don't you rest?"

The girl had not been expecting this. A slight look of embarrassment came over her face, she dropped her eyes to the floor, she did not reply, and she let out a soft sigh. Grantaire sighed loudly in return, annoyed with the girl but even more annoyed with himself. Then, he lifted his bottle to his lips, and Fricassèe glanced up to watch him take another long drink. When he lowered his drink, letting the battle hit loudly against the wooden surface of the table, he turned back to look at her and said in random, "You look tired, and sickly, and homely, but you still look beautiful."

Not even Grantaire quite knew from where this comment had surfaced in his drunken mind. Fricassèe was, most certainly, caught off guard by this remark, and she did not know how to respond. But this was, no matter how muddled or disfigured, the only complement that she could remember ever receiving. This was the only time in her life that a man had told her that she was beautiful. At last, she blushed slightly and offered Grantaire a soft smile. Grantaire gazed tenderly upon the girl for a moment longer, before a gentle smile spread across his lips. This girl had never been loved by a man before, and she did not know what love was. On this raining morning in the CaféMusain with this drunken charmer, she thought, that perhaps, she had finally found it.

Only a short time later, Grantaire was in his usual position, the girl sitting upon his lap, one of her arms around his shoulders, one of his hands resting upon her waist, and his other hand tightly grasping a bottle of liquor. Now, Grantaire was only playing his usual game, performing his usual act, wielding his usual lies. He told the girl that she was beautiful, that she was special to his heart, that he wanted to be with her, that he loved her. She believed him. When he spoke to her in that charming whisper and smiled at her with that intoxicating smile, she felt her body warm and her heart flutter. She thought that he loved her. She thought that she would not be alone anymore. She thought that, at last, the misery of her life would come to an end.

As for Grantaire, what did he think? What did he get out of this? Why was he doing this? For a long time, he did not know, himself. He did not know why he used women like this. He knew in his own conscience that the things that Enjolras said were true: that what he did was disgusting, disgraceful, despicable, terrible, hideous, selfish, and cowardly. He knew this before Enjolras confirmed it, yet he ignored his own conscience, denied his own judgment, and betrayed the virtues that he once held so long ago. Why? Of course, he got pleasure out of the lust that led to the sin, which is pleasing to the corrupted hearts of man, but that was not why Grantaire did this. It was because, when he was with a woman, he could pretend that things were different, he could pretend to forget about his past, he could pretend that he was moving on, and he could pretend that he did not care. He liked the way that it felt when he touched a young woman's hand, or when he held her in his arms, or when he felt her body against his own. It reminded him something so precious that he had lost so long ago. But even if he tried to pretend, what had been lost would never return to him. What was lost was gone, the past was done, and Grantaire was a different man.

"I love you," Grantaire was saying softly to the young woman in his arms, and a look of joy, a light of hope, and a life of youthfulness that had never been seen on Fricassèe's face in all of the years that anyone could remember of her came upon her as she heard him say this.

"You love me?" she repeated, a warm smile lighting up her tired face. Yes, Grantaire had been right. This girl really was beautiful. When she smiled, he could see that. When this light of joy came upon her face, she almost looked as beautiful as she had been before her life destroyed her.

"Of course, I do," Grantaire replied with a charming smile. "I will always love you."

A look of happiness and of love that had never and would never again come upon this woman's face in all of her life came upon her face now. Tears of joy surfaced in her eyes, and she leaned forward toward Grantaire, wrapped both of her arms around his body, pulled him close to her, and rested her head upon his shoulder, hugging him tightly as never to lose him.

Grantaire wrapped his arms around her, as well, and he held her tight and close to him. As he held her against him, as he felt her warmth in his arms, as he felt her body against is own, his heart began to stir. Not because he loved this woman, but because when he was holding her like this, he could pretend and he could almost forget.

Then a sudden pain stabbed his chest, his stomach twisted into a knot, dread and guilt came flooding into his heart, as the memories returned into his mind. The memories that would always haunt him, that would never let him alone, that would never let him be free, came back to torment him now. At once, he was afraid. He was terrified, and he tried to flee away from these thoughts as quickly as he could, like a frightened animal fleeing from the danger that would kill him. Doing what only he could think to do, Grantaire suddenly pulled the girl away from him, she looked up at him, and then, he leaned forward to kiss her. Their lips had barely met, however, when a loud cry was heard and a man came rushing into the café.

Startled, they broke apart and turned their heads as the young man came running toward them. The man was clearly in a desperate hurry and in a panic. His face was pale, his eyes were wide and wild, he was running, he was panting, and he out of breath. Grantaire immediately forgot about the girl he was with as he took in the form of his friend. "Marius?" he cried out in confusion. "What is it? What's wrong?"

Marius eyes shifted and he saw Grantaire sitting in the chair, the girl on his lap, a bottle in his hand, heedless and drunk. Marius's face changed slightly in displeasure, and he did not waste time with words. Rushing into the café past Grantaire, he declared, "Get off your ass, it has begun!"


	6. When Hope Was High and Life Worth Living

Chapter VI

~When Hope Was High and Life Worth Living~

"Christine… I want you to marry me."

In this moment, Grantaire was more afraid then he had ever been in his entire life. His heart froze in his chest like the ice that covered the frozen earth. He suddenly felt so helpless and so vulnerable. He had thrown himself, bound, captive, powerless, and defenses like a prisoner in chains, at the feet of the queen who had the power to save his life or to destroy it, to illuminate his heart or to break it. Grantaire did not know what to do. What could he do? All he could do was look fearfully upon the woman whom he loved and wait for her to answer him.

Christine only stared at him, her eyes wide, her face white, her lips parted, her mouth slightly ajar, and her mind unreadable. Grantaire could see that she was surprised, shocked, aghast… She had not expected this. But he could see no more. He could not know if she was glad or angry, happy or disappointed, pleased or disgraced. She started at him for another long moment, before she blinked and tried to ask, although her voice emitted only as a barely audible whisper, "What did you say?"

Grantaire opened his lips again, but he did not think that his voice would work. He did not know if he could ask a second time, at least not looking into her beautiful eyes. Closing his mouth, he swallowed down the knot in his throat, forced down the fear racing in his heart, dropped his eyes to stare at the snow below his feet, and made himself to repeat, "I want you to marry me."

For a long terrifying moment, he stared at the snow waiting, and he received no answer. Only silence. When he could bare it no more, he glanced up to look at her, dread and fear in his heart, expecting the worst, expecting her to say no, expecting her to become angry at him, expecting her to leave him, expecting her to tell him that she did not love him. He was so afraid that he expected this, even when he already knew the truth that she loved him more than anything else.

He hardly had time to raise his eyes, however, when he felt her body collide with his. He stumbled a step backward, caught off guard, surprised and startled. For a moment he did not understand what had happen. Then, he realized that she had wrapped her arms around his neck and that she was embracing him as tightly as she could, that she was smiling, and laughing, and crying at the same time, that she had said yes.

Before he was aware of it, Grantaire had wrapped his arms around her, as well. He was hugging her closely and tightly to him, holding her as securely as he could, smiling and laughing with the uttermost joy, as his heart swelled and burst with happiness and with love. "Yes! Yes! Yes!" he kept hearing Christine whispering again and again. "Grantaire, I love you."

"I love you," he was then telling her over and over. "Christine, I love you. I will always love you. I want to be with you forever." In this time, when Grantaire said this to this girl, his words came straight from his heart, and he meant every one of them.

"I know, I know," he heard her whispering through tears of joy. "I love you, Grantaire. I will always love you."

Still clinging tightly to each other, she drew her head away from his chest so that she could look up into his eyes. Grantaire looked down upon her face, and for a long moment, they gazed joyfully, lovingly, tenderly, into the others eyes, smiling and bubbling with joy. Grantaire smiled at her and said gently, "I love you, Christine."

Christine did not reply with words. Instead, still smiling, she gently laid her hand against Grantaire's cheek, took his face in her grasp, brought his face toward her own, stood on her toes, and leaned forward to place a soft kiss upon his lips.

Grantaire felt her lips touch his, his eyes closed, and for the moment that it lasted, he only stood there, still and stiff, letting her bestow this sacred kiss upon him. This was the first time that he had ever kissed or been kissed by a woman. This was the first time that Christine had ever kissed or been kissed by a man. Aside from the tender parentally kisses that their mothers and fathers used to place upon their foreheads when they were children, this was the first time that either of them had kissed anybody. Then, their lips broke apart, they opened their eyes, and they looked into the eyes of one another.

Christine only looked up at him, the smile fell away from her face, a strange, unexplainable, pure beauty upon her, like the beauty of this cold winter morning. A moment later, a warm smile spread across her lips and Grantaire's lips at the same time. They smiled and laughed with joy. It was then Grantaire who wrapped his arms around her, held her tightly in his arms, pulled her closely against him, lifted her off of her feet, spun her around in his arms, both of them smiling and laughing, and when he put her on her feet again he pulled her in to kiss her.

A new feeling passed into Grantaire's body, warmth spread throughout his entire being, and his heart began to stir, and then to flutter, then to soar, then to fly, and then to sing. In this moment as Grantaire held this woman in his arms, this woman who he loved, this woman who would soon be his wife, he could not have explained or even understood the joy and the love that he was feeling.

"But your father," Grantaire said when they finally broke away from the kiss, yet were still clinging tightly to one another.

"What of my father?" she asked, smiling brightly up at Grantaire.

"Do think he will let you marry me?"

Her smile grew wider and she laughed softly. "Of course, he will! Why would he not?"

"He just… he does not know me very well."

"He knows that you love me, and he knows that you area good man. What else does he need to know?"

As Grantaire held her and looked down into her beautiful face, he perceived that he was looking into the face of an angel. He was, indeed. This young woman was his angel. He could not help but smile. "How could he know either of those things?"

"They are not too difficult to see in you, Grantaire," she said with a soft smile upon her lips and the strongest sincerity in her voice. Before Grantaire could respond, she tightened her arms around him, pulled him closer to her, and hugged him for a long time. On this beautiful morning of Christmas Eve, these two children stood outside in the snow-covered garden of the church, loving each other, embracing each other, and sometimes blessing the other with a kiss of purity.

"But what of your parents?" Christine finally asked, and this was the question that brought their embrace to an end.

"What about them?" Grantaire asked, unable to frown in such joy.

"Will they let you marry me? Since my father and I are… so poor?"

"Of course, they will! They have to! If the won't, then we will run away together and be married somewhere else."

She looked up at him and laughed softly. "Run away? Where would we go?"

"Anywhere!" he exclaimed, laughing and smiling at the same time. "We'll run off to some town where nobody knows us, and we'll tell them that we have no parents and that we want to get married."

"We could not lie, Grantaire," she said, gently stroking his cheek with her hand.

He let out a soft sigh of happiness, as when he was with the woman he could scarcely feel anything except for happiness, and slowly shook his head. "No," he agreed quietly. "But we will not have to. My parents will let us be married."

As soon as he said this, Christine's face lit up as if a candle had suddenly been lit in her soul. "You really think so?"

"Yes."

Then, overflowing with happiness, with joy, and with love, Christine and Grantaire tightened their arms around each other and pulled each other into another long, tight, warm embrace. Love was bursting inside of Grantaire in a way that he could hardly understand. It made him want to smile, to laugh, to shout, and to sing, all at once. This was the happiest he had ever been in all of his life. He loved her. He had loved her since the moment that he had seen her. Now, he would always love her no matter what happened. He would love her forever.

On the night of that Christmas Eve, Grantaire returned to his father's house, brought both of his parents into a room, and told them that he wanted to get married. His mother was astounded, shocked, terrified, and utterly caught off guard, as she did not even know that he had been seeing a woman, yet, she was also filled with joy and happiness for her son. Almost at once, she approved, but the father, the one who would have to give his blessing for the marriage to be possible, was more reluctant.

He sat upon the cushioned seat of his couch, as his wife stood beside him and his son stood before him. His face hard like stone, not unkind but not kind either, and no smile upon his lips, he drew in a deep breath, narrowed his eyes, and looked deeply at Grantaire, as if his gaze could penetrate through him and read the inner most thoughts in his son's mind and heart. "What is her name?" he questioned the boy, at last.

"Christine."

"Who is her father?"

"A widower called Monsieur Tomothée."

"He has a stable living, I trust?"

"He is a working man."

"A working man?" At once, the look upon his father's face dropped and became much more doubtful. Grantaire's heart froze as if cold frost had suddenly encased it, and he was afraid. "The girl is not of the upper class, then?"

Grantaire answered boldly but no disrespectfully, "She is not rich, if that is what you mean, father."

The old man frowned. "She is poor?"

Grantaire hesitated before answering, "Her father works hard, and they get along."

"You have met her father?"

"Yes. On a few occasions."

"How long have you been seeing this girl?"

"Since October."

"And you are only now telling your father and your mother that you are in love, at all?"

Grantaire could clearly hear the disapproval in his father's voice, and he knew that the man was expecting to hear and explanation. But Grantaire had no explanation that would make his father any less angered, so he answered simply, "Yes."

The frown on his father's face darkened. He was silent for a long moment before he spoke in a low tone, "You want to marry this peasant girl, who is poor and coinless, whom I have never met, whose father is some wretched working fellow, probably a thief, as well, and this girl who my own son does not tell his father about until he wants me to give him my blessing? What in your simple mind makes you think that I will approve of your marriage to this peasant girl? A marriage like this will do nothing for this family or for you."

"Yes, it will!" Grantaire immediate protested, desperate and afraid. "Father, please!" he was now begging. "I love her! Is that not enough reason for you to let me marry her? Don't you want me to be happy?"

In truth, the old man did, very much, want his son to be happy, but not like this. He believed that happiness could not be found in the filthy slums of poverty. The man slowly shook his head, closed his eyes, and raised a hand to Grantaire, as to tell him to be silent. "Yes, I wish you to be happy," he told him, "but you will not find happiness in dirt, stale bread, and a life that is a struggle to live. And what of children? You cannot expect to raise an honorable young man or fine young lady in a life like that! Any children that you produced would end a rascal or a beggar! That kind of life is filthy and unclean. I do not want my son to live like that."

Grantaire's face darkened and he looked suddenly and angrily away from his father. "I have more than enough money to support us both; you know that," he snapped darkly and spitefully. "You don't want me to marry her, because you are selfish and arrogant, and you put yourself above everyone else, and you think that if a person is not rich than she is scum."

As soon as their son said this, the woman let out a sudden gasp of horror and of disbelief, her hands flying to her lips to cover her mouth, and the man was suddenly filled with outrage and fury, abruptly standing up from his set and stepping toward the boy so that he towered over his son and glared down at him like a wrathful king that had the power to beat his slave. He attempted not to let this emotion show on his face, but the man had been hurt greatly by his son's words, as he knew that they were true. "That is quite enough out of you!" he thundered at Grantaire, who did not recoil in the slightest but stood unafraid before his father. "I do not want you to marry her, because I want my son to have a good life! You will be so much happier if your wife is proper, and decent, and suitable—"

"She is proper, and decent, and suitable!" Grantaire cried out. "You think that someone has to be rich to be—"

"—and if she has enough money to contribute, so that you both can have a comfortable life, not scrounging for every sou that you can get you hands on!" his father finished raising his voice in anger. "You have said quite enough, boy, and I have told you what I think of it. Now, get out from my sight."

Fear, and panic, and despaired suddenly seized Grantaire's heart again, and at once, he abandoned any angry thoughts that he had for his father, and he began pleading again, instead. "Please, father," he kept saying. "I love her, I want to be with her, we will get by fine, I have enough money to support us, and I will get a job, and… Please, father, I love her. I have never loved anyone the way that I love her; you cannot take her from me!"

The man sat back down upon the couch as his son continued to say these things. Then, he sat there, staring at the floor, and listening silently for a long time. At last, he held up at hand, and Grantaire fell silent. He let out a heavy sigh and raised his eyes to meet Grantaire's. "Son, listen to me," he said at length, his voice soft and sincere to what he said. "I want, very much, for you to be happy. But I think that it would be better for you and for all of us if you found a girl with more money and higher status in society."

"Father, please," Grantaire said again. His voice was soft now, not at all disrespectful but pleading and sad. His face reflected the sorrow in his heart, and his eyes were as if he was about to break and cry. "I do not want anther woman, I love her. Please, father… You do not understand…" He lowered his head and stared at the floor beneath his feet. "If I do not marry this woman then I will never marry anyone. I will never love anyone else."

Grantaire's father was rich, proud, arrogant, greedy, and selfish, he did not get along with his son, their opinions differed on close to everything, and sometimes the mother would hear her husband mercilessly insulting their good-for-nothing wretch of a child. But in truth, the old man did love his son. He was too proud to say so, but he loved Grantaire. He wanted him to be happy. He could see that, like Grantaire said, his son would not be happy unless he could be with this woman. So at last, the old man agreed.

On Christmas day, the parents met for the first time. Monsieur Tomothée came to Monsieur Grantaire's home, they greeted each other, went into a room, and discussed the matters of their children's marriage; the son and Christine remained quietly on the other side of the room, sitting beside each other on a couch, listening to the affair, trying to remain formal and respectful, but unable to kept the smiles off of their faces when they glanced at each other and then try to suppress soft laughs of joy; and Madame Grantaire remained in the doorway of the room, looking in at the beautiful young girl who sat beside her son, at the kind-seeming man talking to her husband, and at her son, who she had never seen so happy or, and with his happiness, so handsome.

It was decided. The two young ones were to be married. In only a few weeks time, Christine would be Grantaire's wife. One could not explain the joy that they both were feeling. They were so happy. Entranced, intoxicated, and soaring in their love, they had never been so filled with joy. In the days that followed, they spent almost every minute together, walking through Saint-Mandé, talking in a garden, sitting under the stars, watching the sun rise. Everything that they did they did together.

At once, they began to plan and fantasize about the future. Grantaire decided that he would not go to school and that, instead, he would use the money that he had saved to buy a house, then he would find work, and that would be enough to support them both. They could have, of course, lived in the house of Grantaire's father, but he did not want to. Christine said that she, too, could work, but Grantaire immediately objected. The parents had also given them each money, Grantaire's parents more than Christine's father, but he gave everything that he could to his daughter. This would be enough for them to start a new life together. They talked of many things, but no matter what they said or where they went, they were only glad to be with each other. When people saw them together, they could not help but smile at the young couple, as they could see only at a glance how deep their love went.

In only a few weeks time, Grantaire and Christine would have been married. They would have been so happy. But sometimes, for reasons that the mortal man cannot quite understand, Darkness or Providence does not allow these good things in the lives of men to happen. Like a stone barrier that rose up in the way, preventing this marriage to come to pass, on January 10, only three days before the day that the wedding was to untie these young lovers, something happened that would change everything.


End file.
